"I do not wish to have a life of good fortune that causes pain nor a prosperity that galls my heart."

—From The Tragedy of King Richard III
By William Shakespeare

JOVANA'S CHEST HURT as she tried to suck in a deep breath, the irritating corset getting in her way. She could feel each bone of her ribcage chafing against the dratted thing, could sense the room closing in on her. The pain was a vice grip squeezing in on her side, but she breathed through it, keeping her dignity. Usually, she would forego a corset, but she had been due to make an appearance in court today—well, not court seeing as the Mordanians' royal court had been destroyed by the Atlan invasion—but close enough.

A regal, dignified, and silent queen, not a savage warrior trained in blood magic as well as blades, had needed to make an appearance. Or rather, the Lord Regent, Ilyas Durand, had demanded that she make an appearance while he judged the candidates for the royal guard. Never mind that Jovana trained as much as any man, never mind that she knew the mark of a good soldier—he was Lord Regent. To him, she was the queen in name only, a figurehead and a stunningly beautiful one at that. A symbol of power without holding any true power, that was how he thought of her.

Her twenty-first birthday could not come soon enough; it would mean, finally, freedom from that man's thumb—and the first execution ordered by her. She hadn't quite decided if she ought to exile the man or order his death after he most reluctantly stepped down from his position, but she knew she would savour his permanent disappearance from her life. All of his chilling glances that left her more frigid than any Mordanian winter could; all of his disapproving words and his way of speaking over her every time she opened her mouth. Still—the silence imposed upon her, Jovana had made into just another weapon. She had learned long ago to let what few words she spoke have a weightier effect than his numerous ones. There was no room in her life for false flattery or abundant lies. She spoke not the truth only, but commands only—because if one rarely discussed serious topics, what else was one to speak?

"Do you wish me to loosen your corset, Majesty?" Her maid asked, seeing her discomfort as Jovana gripped a bedpost in her borrowed room in the Durand Manor, which was at the very centre of Hartfall, and leaned against the carved pillar for support.

Wordless, Jovana nodded. She would have to put on a good face for the soldiers later, but she would also need to dine later. And she had no intention of picking birdlike at her food, and every intention of keeping her strength up. If she would be allowed no strategic power, she could at least have magic and military command. Magic drained a great deal of energy from one, even if they used it every day to train their body's resistance against having it drawn out of them.

"Help me select a gown for supper," Jovana commanded when she was stripped down to her silk petticoats and hoop-skirts.

They looked through the trunk of clothes she had brought with her from the war-camp, from which they had fled after the failed assassination. There were almost entirely red garments, as it was House Dusang's colour, from bright crimson to deep burgundy. She chose a piece that was velvet, clinging to the wearer like a second skin, and in a shade of deep red, halfway between her preferred shade of violet, and scarlet.

Jovana flinched in surprise and at the sudden rush of cold air when the maid began to undo her corset, leaving her in nothing but a silk slip.

"It is skintight, Your Majesty," she explained sheepishly.

"Fine," she edged out between chattering teeth, shivering at the cold. House Durand's estate of Hartfall was not very far north in Mordania, and was, in fact, one of the estates closest to the Atlan border—but it was always freezing. Perhaps the frigidity was only because of its inhabitants, however, and not because of its climate. "Do what you must, then, to make me look presentable."

While her maids busied themselves with reapplying the few smudged cosmetics she had on her face, Jovana thought of the night ahead. At least it wouldn't be filled with simpering courtiers and maneuvering nobles. Still, soldiers could be just as dangerous. It was good that she at least had an informant of hers who was appointed to the guard and loyal only to herself.

"His Grace, the Lord Regent, summons you to dine, Your Majesty," a footman said, knocking on the door.

Jovana stood up from her place at the vanity, toppling bottles as she stepped on the hem of her skirt, nearly falling over. She gripped the back of her chair, scowling down at the dress. Gods above, she hadn't realized it was so very tight. Every curve and muscle and bone of her body felt exposed, even though the collar was flat against her collarbone and the hem brushed the floor. She stepped into a pair of heeled boots and laced them up, relieved when the edge of the dress now reached her toes and would no longer hinder her movement. Much.

"Tell the Lord Regent that he does not summon me. The queen waits for no one, but everyone had damned well better be waiting for the queen," Jovana responded, placing the heavy crown on her forehead.

After all these years, it now fit her perfectly.

//

WINE SLOSHED INTO her goblet, nearly matching the shade of her dress. Jovana drank deeply, sensing far too many sets of eyes on her. Not just admiration of royalty--but in that primitive, lustful way that men admired women. Or, in this case, a pair of soldiers who were elbowing one another and whispering like little children as they stared at her chest. She pulled her fur mantle over her body even though the heat stifled her in the dining room already - packed as it with the warmth of two dozen bodies - and she felt the gazes lessen.

"Excuse me," Jovana said coolly, feeling a drop of sweat bead on her nape. "What, exactly, seems to have caught your eye?"

She fingered the hilt of her dagger in its sheath at her hip and watched them gulp in fear before mumbling some weak excuses. There. That was one problem solved, and a thousand still to go. Jovana could see Ilyas Durand's eyes narrow as he sat at the other head of the table, saw his head cock infinitesimally, and knew that he did not approve. But she was the queen if that title still held any significance--not some barmaid to be groped for money or to be lusted after by leches. Gods above, it hurt to look at and to think of him. Hurt, because he had all of her best friend's features sharpened by cruelty and malice.

She saw among the rows of men, who dug into their food heartily, a few faces she recognized. There was her informant sitting next to Carlyle Lambert, whose dark hair shone in the lamplight, the sharp bones of his face lending a handsome yet extremely harsh look to the man. As if he had been crafted from the cliffs and crags of Mordania itself, his steely gaze sent chills skittering down her spine. Jovana ignored it, swishing the negus in her pewter goblet before downing it in one swallow. It left a coppery tang in her mouth, and she realized she'd bitten down on her tongue before fighting the urge to wince.

"A toast!" She saw her informant stand up, just as they had agreed that he would, and tap his spoon against his cup. "To Her Majesty, Queen Jovana of Mordania, for her graciousness in hosting us here to the beautiful home we are in—thank you, Your Grace." He nodded at Lord Durand. "May all of our tenures in the royal guard be uneventful and long-lasting."

The men echoed him, the room growing rowdier still. Jovana sliced into her haunch of venison, carefully to avoid splattering blood anywhere. The red liquid seeped out, watery, into the pile of mashed potatoes beside it. Her stomach roiled, and she put down her utensils, no longer hungry for food but for conversation--for a companion. Someone her equal, someone who was neither her inferior nor her enemy; she did not wish to speak to a pandering courtier nor an informant of dubious loyalties. When had she last had a friend?

Unwillingly, her mind flitted to thoughts of Mireille--to thoughts of the friend she had lost when the Atlans had attacked. To the friend that no one, not even her father, spoke of anymore.

Grief and loneliness, dual storms, passed through her heart, and she clenched her hand around her empty goblet to keep from shaking and falling apart before slamming it down again on the wooden table. 

"I need some air, away from this crush," Jovana muttered. "Please, enjoy the food."

The conversation resumed without her. No one really needed her, in this world. She was alone and unwanted and unnecessary--if she were to die tomorrow, the administration of the realm would resume under the Lord Regent's watchful, cold eye. If she were to die tomorrow, there would really be no one to miss her, and that was a sobering, painful thought. Her heels clattered on the stone floor, and she realized she was running, running as tears streamed down her face even though this dress was far too close-fitting for its wearer to do any sort of movement except lifting a fork to one's mouth.  

Somehow, she found her way to the other wing of the house, where the now-deserted ballroom was. Dustcloths were draped over the furniture, making the chairs and tables look like ghosts, but she wandered between them to the balcony and pushed at one of its doors. It creaked, stiff with disuse, then finally opened to reveal the night sky. Distant and unchanging, it made a memory surface.

It was a beautiful summer's night, about as warm as it ever got in Mordania. Warm enough, at least, that Jovana could exchange her furs for simple merino and cashmere; warm enough that the icicles dripped from the palace roofs, and warm enough that Mireille's father held his annual Summer's Ball. Of course, little girls weren't invited, as both of their governesses told them, but they were certainly allowed to gape and gawk and giggle from the little balconies set into the ballroom. That was what they were doing now, watching as the Mordanian noblemen and their wives twirled across the floors with military precision to the sounds of music. It was one of the few times that Jovana saw the adults around her really relax because most of the time they were busy with war councils and other things that made her mother frown.

"Isn't that such a lovely dress?" Mireille pointed at Lady Swattle, who was dancing with her brother. A dress that looked like it was formed from living vines covered her body: strands of green material wrapped around her arms and throat, the hem swishy and slashed away until it resembled grass.

"It's such an Atlan style, don't you think?" Jovana replied. Mordanians wore red or white or black--blood or bone or death. Atlans wore whatever resembled the elements; it made it easy for them to distinguish. "She looks like she's just climbed out of a tree!"

"What are the two of you doing here?" An irritating voice asked. "Mireille, you're not supposed to be at the ball."

The two girls got up and dusted themselves off.

"Alastair, you're not supposed to be here either! you weren't even invited." Jovana put her hands on her hips.

"Well, neither were you two, because you are children." Alastair took a step towards her, one inch taller as he folded his arms across his chest.

"Please don't fight--" But it was too late.

With what little training she had been given, she formed a defensive pose: feet shoulder-width apart, one slightly in front of the other, and raised her fists to protect her face.

Alastair chuckled darkly, and the next thing she knew, her limbs felt loose and floppy, though she hadn't been tired at all a moment ago, and she was on the floor...