Regis closed his eyes and waited. The chief judge was standing up.

“Normally,” he heard the judge say, “the winner of the fight would automatically be the one to move on. However,” the judge paused at the immediate roar from the crowd, “since he has registered as having royal blood we had to take this into account, no matter how distant. So we have decided that the winner of this fight is . . . Perni Trasson!”

The crowd made a huge amount of noise—including some clearly crying out in protest—but Regis only opened his eyes and bowed slightly to his competitor.

“Congratulations,” he said.

“None needed,” Perni Trasson said stiffly. He’d been undefeated before this fight. “The judges were likely to see past the cheating blood.”

No one heard the conversation over the hubbub. Regis only shrugged and turned toward the judge again. To the judge’s left, sitting on a high-backed chair of rich wood, was the princess—Princess Charlotte, of the Aresariis Na Sarthato line. He didn’t allow himself to look at her for more than a moment, but he sighed to himself. Unless he thought of something else, he was doomed to another year of illusion. Her eyes were fixed on the judge at the moment, looking thoughtful. Regis wondered if she really was thoughtful.

Her blue eyes turned from the judge and went to him.

Regis couldn’t move. He could only look back at her, and her small, consoling smile. She looked to her right, to one of her ladies-in-waiting, and Regis looked down at his scuffed boots. The worn hilt of his sword caught his eye. It was the second to last round, and for a few minutes he’d let himself hope. He turned away slipped off into the crowd.

Or, he tried. A hand clapped his arm, and he looked up in surprise to see a burly man with a friendly smile.

“Keep trying, lad,” he said. “You get better by the year.”

Regis blinked in surprise. “You’ve noticed me before?” He’d entered the competition every year for the last four years, but he’d never gotten this far.

“You started looking familiar,” he said. “You should know I’m not the only one rooting for you.”

“That’s kind of you, sir,” Regis said. “Thank you.”

“I’ll be here next year to see you win—eh?”

“I can hope,” Regis said with a smile he didn’t feel, and slipped past.

Later that day, he was sitting in an outdoor restaurant when a brown-haired woman slid into the seat across from him.

“That was closer,” Nem said. “I shouldn’t even try to stop you next year, should I?”

Regis didn’t smile. “You won’t be able to,” he said. “Without force.”

“I suppose I could tell you that you could never come back,” she said. “Otherwise I don’t know what would work. Now,” she leaned forward and stole a piece of his bread salad, “are we going back today or can we stay for smaller contests?”

Regis smiled now. “Whatever you want. You’re the one in charge, remember?”

“I remember,” she said with a grin. “The question, though,” she stole another piece and shook it at him, “is if you’re going to mope around until we leave.”

“I won’t mope,” Regis said.

“Really?” she asked, one skeptical eyebrow raised at him. “Last year you said you wouldn’t, either.”

“That was before I lost out. Now that I already have, I can say that I won’t with confidence. Stay for your glass-blowing contest.”

A blush touched her cheeks. “How did you know?”

Regis didn’t bother to answer. He only smiled and shook his head. For all of Nem’s political prowess, she could be incredibly obvious. She tried not to show how much she liked crafting, since she never had time for it, but Regis knew. They were each others’ only family. They were small nobility, and their parents had been too busy with having high hopes for them to be too loving. Their hopes were so high that his name was the title given to kings. Fortunately for Regis and his sister’s mental health, they were years gone—though they were missed. They’d cared, and it had shown—just not as actively as either of them had wanted. So they’d always turned to each other.

“You’re already starting to get mourningly thoughtful,” she said. “I’ll start packing when we get back.”

“No,” Regis said. “I was thinking about Mother and Father.”

“Ah,” she said.

“Maybe I’ll take up a few more competitions tomorrow,” Regis said. “I’ll keep busy.”

“You always ‘keep busy,’” Nem said. “It’s only a glass-blowing competition. I’m not set on it.”

“No,” Regis said. “Maybe I’ll find a bad cooking competition.”

“You’ve never cooked in your life.”

“That’s the point.”

She shook her head. “Fine,” she said. “Just don’t do any poetry.”

Regis raised an eyebrow at her. “Poetry?”

“Lovesick pups write poetry,” she said.

“My dear sister,” he said, “I hate to bring it up, but how would you know?”

Nem dimpled. She’d long-since given up on suitors, even though Regis thought that was ridiculous—they were only a year and a half apart, and he was sixteen. She didn’t mind not having what she called cads at her feet. She’d set her heart on a political marriage that would get them enough money for a province-wide overhaul of the irrigation system—all smaller systems were all interconnected, since the entire province was farmland. Regis had spent many an evening listening to her talk about how bad their current one was while they played chess.

“I have friends,” she said. “The lady Lesak has dozens under her window per night. I didn’t believe her until I went to stay with her for a month—”

“She’s rich,” Regis interrupted.

“She’s also a handsome woman,” she said. “Some of them may be writing the poems with ardor inspired by money instead of looks, but she still gets both kinds. They’re unashamed, too.”

“Well, you may rest easy in that I will not be joining a poetry contest,” he said. “Besides, what would I write? Ode to an Illusion?”

“You don’t know that she is,” Nem said. “She could actually be as good as you think she is. You do see her a little differently than most people—I hope you realize that. Few people think of her as particularly kind. Not unkind, but it isn’t on the list of the first ten words to describe her.”

“How else do you explain her visit to the flood victims? Do you know how hard it was to get to them—”

“Others call her a good politician,” Nem said. “It makes her look good.”

Regis started to say something, but Nem kept going.

“No one ever says that she can’t have dual reasons, and I certainly say nothing, but people don’t really think it was only because she was overwhelmed by the desire to go talk to them.”

“She didn’t talk,” Regis started.

“I know,” Nem said. “She spent every minute she could helping people rebuild according to the newest foundation designs, either making or paying for the best materials, wading through mud to collect belongings or salvage wrapped food or even rescuing people, and last but not least paid for the best engineers to survey the entire forest’s flood defenses, with a stipend for wherever needed to be adjusted or even completely rebuilt or overhauled.”

Regis smiled ruefully. “Sorry.”

“You’re an idiot,” she said, but kindly. Regis knew she was right. “Are you going to finish that salad?”

The next day Regis wandered around, participating in small contests mostly without prizes. After winning well he was even asked to judge a bean-toss competition—a high brow bean-toss competition—and enjoyed that. He even managed to settle some disputes so both sides were happy. He was no politician, but he could listen well enough.

Near the end of the day he drifted toward the center. The fighting competition had finished that morning, and it was still light, meaning the final magic competition fight wouldn’t happen for a while, so there were fewer people there. He only glanced at the princess, even though she looked, to him, like she was trying not to look tired. Instead he studied the rankings, listed on a heavy length of fabric draped along the ropes enclosing the field. He was fifth.

Nem’s glass-blowing contest had been that afternoon, so she came back to their little camp earlier than Regis. They weren’t rich enough for a place in town, but they had enough for a campground for them and the three servants they’d brought. Nem hated spending money on anything that wasn’t helpful to them, but otherwise Regis would have gone alone every year, and they had to have a holiday sometime. Regis came back in the evening.

“We can go now,” Nem said as they shared a simple dinner of soup. They’d invited their three servants to sit with them, since there were only three of them, but they’d politely declined. Nem and Regis were kind to them, but they were still nobility, and neither had ever been particularly social—except, in Nem’s case, when it was called for. When it wasn’t, she was much more like Regis always was. Quiet, listening, but able to quickly engage in conversation if it was one-on-one.

So as usual it was just them.

“Do you mind leaving now?” Regis asked.

“We’ll beat the crowd,” Nem said. “Mostly.”

“You keep dodging telling me how the glass-blowing went.”

Nem blushed. “I did alright. Nothing too good.”

“Second place?”

“No,” Nem said. “Third. Like I said, not that good.”

Regis had gone by at the beginning, before the throng got too thick for him to leave before Nem’s sharp gaze caught him. They’d agreed a long time ago not to watch each others’ competitions. They tended to get competitive on the others’ behalf, and rail against whoever beat them for days if not weeks. The first year Regis had competed in the fighting contest Nem hadn’t stopped saying he deserved to go on at least to the next round for months.

Even when the contestants for the glass-blowing competition were first gathering, there were already dozens of people in line to sign up.

“Typical Nem,” he said, and she rolled her eyes.

“Second and first place had amazing pieces,” she said. “Much better than my poor little ornament.”

“Did they let you keep it?” Regis asked.

“I gave it to someone,” she said vaguely. “It wasn’t my best work.”

The left early the next morning. When they were getting far enough away to barely still see the city, Regis reined in his mount and looked back.

Princess Charlotte was still there. Another year he was doomed to love the illusion. He wondered what he’d do with himself when he didn’t have the goal of getting himself out of that situation. Nem might be skeptical, but what helped least was the fact that he didn’t know what else he would do with himself. He wasn’t a politician, he wasn’t a technical thinker, and he wasn’t an artist or a particularly good scholar. He was a listener, a learner, a fighter—a normal boy.

He looked ahead in his life, and all he saw was impenetrable mist.

Well, he did know that he would be back next year.

“Regis Setan!”

Regis’ eyes opened in surprise. The fight had been close, and he was sure that his distant royal blood would make him lose out again.

“Congratulations,” his opponent said, smiling as he bowed slightly. Regis mechanically bowed back.

“Thank you. I thought for sure . . .”

“I have a little royal blood, too,” he said. “Good luck next round.”

Regis nodded, already thinking about it. The fight he just won was the second to last of the whole competition—it was the fight he’d lost last year.

He went back to the competitor’s tent to the side of the field. The last fight wouldn’t be longer than an hour away.

People kept congratulating him. Finally Nem shouldered her way in, despite complaints that the tent was for the fighters only.

Regis grinned. “You’re not supposed to be here.” He meant both the fighter’s tent and watching.

“You’re through to the final round,” she said. “If you get beaten here I have the right to complain for at least two months. I might as well complain informatively. How are you feeling?”

“Good, I think,” Regis said.

“Hey,” she said, lowering her voice and glancing around, “I keep meaning to ask, do you still have the same plan, if you win?”

“What else can I say?” he asked.

Nem sighed. “I don’t know. But ask for a week instead, alright? One day won’t help.”

Regis nodded. “I was thinking that, too.”

“Alright,” she said, “I’m about to be kicked out, but good luck, and you can’t stop me from watching.”

“Then I watch the glass blowing.”

“I’m going to hope that you can’t.”

At the thought Regis’ stomach jumped, but he pulled himself together and hoped that no one thought his blush was more than the summer heat.

“Miss,” a guard said in a stern voice. Nem turned to him and set her chin.

“That would be my lady,” she said. “I’m only talking to my brother for a moment.”

The guard was not at all disturbed by her well-sculpted airs. “Nevertheless, my lady, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

Nem left gracefully, and Regis grinned as he watched her go. At the last moment, she turned and called, “Good luck!”

Regis watched the fight carefully. One of them would be his competitor. They were both good.

Still, Regis felt a kind of calm. Yes, he wanted to win, and he wanted it badly, but at the same time, he knew he was up to fighting either one of them. He was never sure if he could win against them, this high up—though he usually did—but he almost always knew when he was at least a match.

A few seconds in Regis knew who would win and focused on him. He spent the time analyzing how he moved and fought. It would be tough, but he thought he could do it.

The illusion might be gone soon.

The moment finally arrived, after the end of the fight and enough time to let the winner rest up for the final round.

Regis took his place first, while his opponent made sure he was ready, and looked around.

Nem was right in front of the crowd.

“Good luck,” she mouthed.

Regis shook his head and pointed away almost pleadingly. If he lost here it would already hurt enough without her rehashing every second. Nem folded her arms and set her stance as if getting comfortable.

“Please?” Regis mouthed, but Nem shook her head firmly.

“Nem Setan,” a familiar voice called, cutting through the crowd and almost immediately hushing them. Regis and Nem had both started and looked up at the princess. “Why don’t you come sit up here? It will be more comfortable, and I have a good view. I can’t let you miss this fight, after all the years your brother’s tried to get here.”

Regis flushed badly. She remembered him? Perhaps she recognized the name Setan because of Nem’s politics, even local as they were.

Nem made her way over, not walking exactly by Regis, but close enough that he was the only one to hear her say “Good luck, little brother, and may the best illusionist win.”

Regis rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help a small grin. Once she was seated by the princess, and his opponent ready, they walked to the center and waited on the mark.

His opponent was good. More than once they both backed off to catch their breath before attacking again.

In the end, though, Regis disarmed him and was declared the winner of the fight—part one. His royal blood made it a decision.

“You fight well,” his opponent said as they stood, waiting. They were still both breathing hard. “How close are you?”

“Sixteenth cousin,” Regis said. “I don’t rely on it. I almost wish I didn’t have it.”

“Because it keeps disqualifying you?” he asked, and Regis looked at him in surprise.

“The princess isn’t the only one that recognizes you,” he said. Regis blinked, and he laughed. “Do you keep entering just because you want to win?”

“That’s usually why people enter,” Regis said, a little confused at the phrasing. Why enter if you didn’t want to win?

“People wonder,” he said. “Your sister apparently says you’re not competitive.”

“You’ve talked to her?” Regis asked. The man can’t have heard it from hearsay—he wasn’t that noticeable. Yes, he’d entered every year, but he was hardly the only one. Though, he was usually fighting different people at the end, so maybe it was the consistency.

His opponent shook his head. “You really don’t know how many people have been rooting for you.”

Regis didn’t know what to say. The main judge stood up, and the both looked up.

Regis didn’t really hear anything until he heard his name called as the victor.

“Congratulations,” his opponent said.

“Thank you,” Regis said, automatically, and he laughed and put a hand on Regis’ back to push him toward the stairs.

The prize was generally money. The princess, who presented the award, was holding the chest, but when she held it out to him, he hesitated.

“Your highness, may I ask for something else,” he said, and the excited crowd went silent. Everyone froze but Nem. The princess did, too, but only for a moment.

“That is the rule,” she said, “though we have the right to say no. Speak.”

Now Regis had to say it, to her face, what he’d been thinking about saying for so many years. He’d imagined this moment so many times.

“I ask,” he said, “for the chance to break an illusion.” He paused, partially because he still didn’t have his breath completely steady, and he glanced at Nem. Her smile bolstered him and he looked back at the princess.

“For whatever reason,” he said, “I spent a lot of time at court before my parents died, mostly for social occasions, so I saw you frequently.”

Possible understanding flickered in her eyes.

“I watched you,” he said, “and I saw someone, beneath who you appear to be—obviously an illusion, since I’ve never even spoken to you until this moment, or even been close enough to hear you speak unless you spoke to a crowd. I know it’s an illusion.” He paused again, searching her eyes. Her lips had parted slightly, her eyes wide—but not like any other seventeen-year-old would have looked. Surprise, yes, but not naive surprise. “I have loved that illusion since I knew what love was, and it will not go away. So I ask for the chance to break that—for a week close enough to you to see you as you really are.”

For an eternity, it seemed, there was absolute silence. Then she closed her mouth, and opened it again to speak.

“It’s extraordinarily unusual,” she said. “You’ve fought for five years to get here and ask this?”

“The original plan was to ask for a day, your highness,” Regis said, “but if a week is precious little time to get to know someone, a day would be impossible.”

“How are you so sure a week will be enough?” she asked.

“It has to be,” he said.

“It probably wouldn’t be allowed,” she said. The captain of her guard, standing just behind her throne, cleared his throat softly, but the princess went on—almost more quickly. “Such a request could hardly be granted under most circumstances—” the captain of her guard cleared his throat again, slightly louder, “—however, I will agree to it.”

The crowd erupted into cheers. Nem actually clapped her hands. The princess held Regis’ gaze for a moment, and then glanced back at her captain with an almost sassy look in her eye.