The palace springs to life with visitors from all over the kingdom. But her anxiety grows as her role switches from ignored daughter to celebrity. People she doesn’t know retell stories of her childhood. Or recount adventures of them and her father as a rambunctious youth. The more sombre guests whisper condolences for her mother.

It’s difficult to manage the tumult emotions these interactions cause. Those who know her as a child are unaware of her as an adult. The image of an impulsive youthful boy doesn’t match with the man, the father, who raised her. Worse yet, the thought of her missing mother grips her heart. But she keeps this to herself, saving it for another day.

Zack’s persistent presence, once hated, is now a saving grace. His temperament is cordial and helpful. Especially when he rescues her from the overcritical busy bodies. He doesn’t mention their conversation from the other morning. But when other officers summon him away, her stomach sinks knowing the secret they hide.

He’s organizing the soldiers and gathering supplies, preparing his men for a war. All this and more, she knows, without a word passing between them. From her doorway she watches the children play in the gardens. Sara darts from manicured hedges as she chases another girl her age. They giggle and push past plump skirts and walking canes. The indignation written on the aristocracies faces makes her chuckle.

At her father’s command, she entertains the special guests as they participate in the festivities before the royal gala that night. Visits through gardens, performances in kingdom squares, tea parties, and hunting trips. She can't help but miss Eclipse, his guidance is absent, but also his dry humor. Oh, the gossip he would know about the pretentious aristocrats making a show of themselves in return for the king's favor. The longer he's away the more lackluster her life seems. The more boring she's become. Her ladies willingly fuss over her, but even they seem like strangers.

They help her to a chair where they apply perfumed lotions on her skin. They brush, curl, and pin her hair in the royal custom. Her dress, designed in Alexanderia’s official colours, celebrates her ‘blossoming strength and beauty’. The elegant layers of ivory skirts with white embroidered floral patterns graze the floor. Satin roses are sewn on the red bodice which vanish into the sea of material trailing behind her. Next, they dust her exposed shoulders and neckline with pale powder mixed with gold flecks.

Mustering the grace of a saint, she asks for a moment alone, reluctantly the ladies leave. In the quiet, she takes a deep breath, exhaling until her lungs empty. Again. But her peace doesn’t last, because once the chatter vanishes, her thoughts are clearer than ever. Pacing doesn’t help, her skirts are too heavy and have a preference to collide with furniture edges.

She catches a glimpse of her reflection in the floor length mirror. This is what she’s expected to become? The days of twigs stuck in her braid and sleeping on the cold ground are gone. Sampling cuisine from the out of the way towns are a distant memory. Everything she once treasured is now nothing more than what her father expects her to like and do. She spent the last while trying to convince herself that this isn’t the end; but now she’s not sure.

There’s one item left, turning her gaze to a gold box on the table. She plucks the gold tiara from the sea of velvet as the last rays of afternoon sun shimmer through the red rubies. My mother’s tiara. As a child, she dreamed of wearing it one day. Tonight, I exchange my freedom for Alexanderia’s survival. A knot tightens in her stomach, the tiara makes her sick. Her mother stares at her from the reflection and she sees a family torn apart.

This is a mistake.

Cascading music swirls with laughter while she waits outside the throne room. It reminds her of crouching in doorways spying on her mother’s parties and the lively cadence surrounding her. But this isn’t her mother’s palace, it’s a cold foreign world with invisible shackles. Paradise above, I’ll die before I become my father. The sounding horns cue the doors to open; the thunderous applause ushers her inside. The room sparkles with jewels and candlelight; an ocean of smiling faces as far as the eye can see.

But her gaze follows the carpet leading to her father and the two thrones behind him. Ignoring the pain in her aching hips she continues the performance; life requires perfection. The vacant throne glistens beside him, reminding her of the loneliness her absence banished him to. He regards her as the last of her mother’s legacy; his chest swells with pride, finally, she’s the daughter he always wanted. She extends the dress to full arm’s length, bowing until her knees graze the carpet.

“With the power invested in me by the authority of the crown, I name you, my beautiful daughter, my successor!" The crowd erupts with applause as he places a gentle kiss on each cheek, “your mother would be as proud of you as I am.”

“Thank you, father,” he takes her hand and leads her to her seat. Zack, in his garnet ceremonial uniform, carries himself with confidence and authority as he takes his position to her right. The fitted tunic accentuates his strong shoulders and chest. She hates butterflies fluttering in her stomach when he smiles at her.

She settles into the chair, waiting for the music to play before wiping the sweat from her palms. The more exuberant guests take to the dance floor with their partners struggling to keep up. She’s heard the song before, a lively melody, played at festivals throughout the summer. Chris leads the gleeful Sara towards the others; twirling her under the crystal chandelier. Stitched to the side of her ivory dress is an oversize rose; which holds on for dear life as the song's tempo picks up. White lilies crown her head while pigtails fall in elegant curls.

He twirls her as the violins play the chorus; she laughs as he lifts her in the air and spins around the floor. When the instruments hum and fall silent he bows and graciously kisses her hand. Moira's smile fades as he downs a goblet of wine at the refreshment table. But her father, unaware of the thief’s drunken antics, hums the melody of the next song, happily tapping his fingers in time with the music. After the dance, he pulls himself from the throne, and the musicians quiet. Once everyone’s eyes are on him, he clears his voice and addresses the crowd.

“Esteemed guests, and friends, allow me this one interruption.” A servant in lavish clothes enters balancing a staff on his open palms. “My daughter’s talents are many, and each day becomes a shining mark on the Avalon name. One day I will pass this crown on to her, but tonight I pass this torch. A symbol of amends and a bridge connecting her world and mine.”

The applause is deafening; after all it’s the staff that fought against Kipling. A holy relic to some. A historical artifact that deserves a place behind glass. To her, its a walnut base with a gleaming colourless iolite gemstone. Her cheeks flush as she contemplates the audience, the sweaty man’s face, and the object laying lifeless in his palms. Amends?

She looks to him, the smile chipping from his face as the audience pushes for another round of applause. She already has a staff, her mother’s staff, why give her his? Why this façade? But she recognizes the exasperation in his eyes, their direction simple; do not make a fool of me here. More cheers as she takes the staff as her own, a wide grin replaces his resentment and she averts a crisis.

“Father…”

“Please take it, my dear,” he smiles. “Know that I appreciate you keeping your promise. There were doubts.” His honesty jabs her heart.

“I’m speechless,” she mumbles holding it on her lap. The last time she saw this was the night Kipling attacked. The worn handle threatens her with slivers of splinters. He hasn't polished the iolite in ages; its scratched and dull. A knot twists in her stomach, how genuine is this gesture? Eclipse told her not to judge a Mage by the state of their staff, but she can’t help it. The sad state of it, the lack of care; what does that say about his promise.

He smiles at her, she returns the gesture, praying her face doesn’t reveal the doubt pumping through her chest. This isn’t a peace offering he thinks it is. This empty gesture confirms her fear. He says the right words but won’t follow through. The song changes, the tempo thumps along with her heart. The dress squeezes her ribs and hips. She shifts her weight, trying as many subtle angles she can to be comfortable, but nothing works.

Zack drifts from behind a group of couples and catches her eye. Reality settles over her, no where is truly safe. If it were, then Zack or the people like him wouldn’t exist. The gem glimmers as the chandelier light catches it. Reflecting dull flames at every sharp angle. It draws her to the man beside her. Would he fight or flee? The staff hasn’t changed, but he has. Her chest rises, as her heart hits her ribs, and she can’t escape the fear of his decision. What each choice would mean to her; to Alexanderia.

“Everyone seems happy,” he grins beside her.

“They do, don’t they?” She winces as her chest tightens, forcing herself to take a deep breath. The dancing continues, spinning and swaying in organized lines. Like glittering soldiers obeying the musician’s lead. They dance for her, but will they kill for her? If she asked. That’s her new power. Burden. Her throat clamps tighter, she can’t.

“Are you alright my dear?”

“Yes,” She clutches her chest as two shallow breaths escape her lips. The room brightens but faces before her blur. There’s a whoosh of water in her ears, as the room comes in and out of focus. Not here, please. Hold it together. Eclipse’s breathing techniques don’t work, any second the crowd will witness her fall apart. But a waving hand from the shadowy hallway beckons her. Chris smiles, urging her away. “Pardon me father...”

The vacant hallway is unsettling; Zack’s safety briefing ensured guards at every entrance. But there’s none in sight. Chris is gone; every step of her search sends an agonizing pain shooting through her body. A vice grip clutches her lungs. Her shaking fingers claw across the mahogany panels; pulling her trembling legs forward. The door handle is warm to the touch, but it doesn’t open. She watches the candle’s flames twist and wrap itself into the stain panels. The space fades to grey, her head hits a hard surface while her heavy form crumbles to the marble.

“Moira? What’s wrong? Can you hear me?” he drags her into the room.

“Chris?” he holds her shoulders against the closed door preventing her from falling.

“It’s alright, just stay with me.” The seriousness of his face startles her. His hands wrap around her waist pushing her against his body. She inhales the scent of liquor wafting from his clothes and breath; her heart races as his steady hands climb higher.

“Chris…”

“Hush.”

His touch is torture as he delicately unties the strings of her bodice. She pushes against him but she’s too weak; unable to resist she shuts her eyes laying her head on his chest. One arm clutches her waist while the other fumbles with the rest of the laces. Consciousness slips, as the last fastener pops. She falls limp at his feet as air floods her lungs; trembling she clutches her dress to her chest; swallowing air for the first time all night.

His voice fades in and out, but there’s one word that’s clear. Breathe. He holds her hand and repeats it until she obeys. You’re safe. You’re in control. Over and over, inhale and exhale, again and again. He squeezes her fingers, one at a time drawing her attention to a pattern. In time, her surroundings come into focus. She’s on the floor, sitting against a chair with him beside her. He smiles when their eyes meet, causing her to blush.

“Sorry…you shouldn’t have to see me like that…”

“Not at all, I like seeing the authentic you.”

“A hyperventilating maniac?”

“No one’s perfect Moira, it’s okay if you don’t have everything together all the time. Can you stand?”

“What did you want with me anyway?”

“I just came to rescue you from this boring party. Oh, ya sorry, let me fix this for you, turn around.” His nimble fingers lace her gown faster than any servant in the palace. “I’m sorry for scaring you.”

“I don’t know what would’ve happened if you didn’t find me.”

“What are you two doing?” Zack barks from the doorway, one hand on the frame the other holding the doorknob.

“Nothing,” Chris answers tying the last knot.

“Zack it’s not what it looks like.” But he isn’t convinced, his stance fills the doorway. His clench jaw and narrow eyes give her pause. Everything about him is tense, on the brink of a strike. Even Chris squares his shoulders. “Chris was just leaving, he wanted to check on Sara.” Taking Zack’s silence as approval he exits, brushing past Zack as he did so. She fights to stand on trembling knees. His glare frightens her; a cold fury she hasn’t seen since Lollardum.

“His Majesty is asking for you.”

“Yes, of course.” She mumbles, he follows her, his steps heavy and impatient. She stops at the edge of the shadow, facing the room full of guests. “Are we going to talk about what happened in there?”

“The king wishes—”

But an explosion cuts off his words and echoes inside the throne room. It shakes the palace. Behind the screaming glass shatters and tumbles over the floor.

“Father!”