It was nearly midnight, and Chioni was looking through records — again. She was working on reading and retaining information on every palace employee and visitor. She had been doing so for quite a while – three years now – but demographics had the fickle habit of changing, and new information was constantly flowing in.

  Tonight, there were only three folders splayed out on her desk. Before her lay her study — an impressive hall lined in bookshelves and filing cabinets she never used. Pale blue light crystals were hung in even intervals along the ceiling, lighting the place in a ghostly glow. Behind her was a large window, pieced together from small rectangular fragments of glass. She kept the dark blue curtains drawn over it at all times, to avoid that terrible, terrible feeling of having her back exposed.

  The floor beneath her feet was carpeted, a strange difference from the uniform tile of the palace. A soft map of Tessera, the way it had been in Statheros’ time. This room had allegedly been made for him specifically — though, whether or not he’d ever used it was still a controversial topic among historians.

  She ran her fingers over the folders, before selecting the first one.

  The updated files on each of the holders. She herself did not have a file in the castle depository – or, if she did, she was unable to find it. Evgenis’ showed little change. Dilitirio’s, on the other hand, hadn’t existed until seven months ago.

  It was a headache. Her ‘name’ — Asimi Dilitirio – was featured in no previous records. There was no mention of any Dilitirio heir. How had Aconite accomplished this? It was all highly suspicious. Could a person be created from illusions? Wholly? Could illusions eat and speak and sing the way she did? Chioni had never touched her, didn’t know if she was even solid.

  She looked over the forms Dilitirio had filled out on her first day in the palace. All the answers were silly things. Under ‘birthdate’, she’d written: ‘any day, if you want to get me a cake’, with a winky face that looked like ‘;3’. Just staring at that, the thoughtless words paired with the strangely florid cursive, made Chioni’s throat burn. Of course she hadn’t taken it seriously. She didn’t take anything seriously. Dilitirio and her stupid cake —

  Chioni took a deep breath and moved on.

  Pnevma’s name was on record, at least. As well as his parentage, age, measurements, and date of birth . . .

  She glanced over that section, and snorted.

  Asclepius 12th, 278 P.F. — that explained so much. He’d been born on a night when Eru looked nonexistent, which explained his cowardice, with Insa and Qua both in their first quarter stages, making him so disagreeable. Just her luck; the chosen one of the Courage Stone was marked with such terrible moons.

  Aside from that, nothing of note. A mother deep in debt with an atrocious credit score – she’d expected nothing better. A father who was a veteran – now, that was interesting. It was evident he’d failed to instill any morality in his son.

  Ash Evgenis . . . his information should have been the most easily accessed. As a noble heir, his file should have held every single bit of information about him — data collected from years of careful monitoring by his teachers at the academy.

  Instead, there was only a relatively slim stack of papers, the last of which explained how he’d been taken out of school after several meetings between Lord Evgenis and the headmaster. There was quite a bit of paperwork that had been filled out. She had never paid much attention to it, but now she peered closer.

  It was all very vague . . . mentions of episodic, unexcused disappearances from class, reluctance to speak to others, bursts of productivity that died in dramatic plunges grade-wise, mentions of absentmindedness, gazing off, forgetfulness . . . one teacher described him as a rubber band that had been pulled taut enough to snap, clearly trying, yet failing in all aspects of living.

  She swallowed, and set the folder down. She didn’t know what to think. Some of that almost sounded a bit too close to her own terrible situation.

  “. . . You don’t have to tell me anything. But, if . . . if there’s anything you need to get out . . . anything you need an ear for, I’d be willing to listen.”

  Statheros, maybe he wasn’t looking for blackmail or leverage.

  But, still — why? Why would he care about her?

  And, besides . . . all of these comments had happened five years ago. Either he’d improved somewhat in his time away, or he was just as terribly incompetent as Pnevma, and she had more work than she’d expected.

  “Trust is a needed connection.”

  He’d been alone for five years . . . maybe just as alone as she’d been.

  She wondered if he’d ever felt this helpless . . . this powerless, this exposed, after watching the world he’d known crash down and shatter. How had he survived it?

  He didn’t. He failed. She pushed the folder away, accidentally sending it flying off the desk. Its contents scattered across the floor, white sheets stark against the dark blue carpet. He dropped out, and hid away from the kingdom for five years. The kingdom he’s supposed to serve.

  And he had someone protecting him, to make that possible.

  She thought bitterly of Lord Evgenis, and wondered what his relationship with his son was. Had he taken him out of school due to genuine concern, or to prevent him from embarrassing the Evgenis line any further?

  Either way, she had nothing like that. No defender, no safety net. General Kryo Eridani treated her as an employee who would get fired the moment she slipped up. Not that he needed to. She already had the queen’s ghost haunting her, and the Service Stone burning at her wrist, reminding her of her place, and her duty.

  She and Evgenis were not the same. And she would not fail the way he had.

  And yet . . .

  Her eyes drifted down to that photo of him, that had fallen to the carpet. It rested in the middle of Kyanos Bay on the map. Younger - twelve, maybe, glancing awkwardly at the camera, hands held stiffly behind his back, a smile that seemed to say he wanted to be anywhere else but in the frame.

  Something in her chest ached in sympathy.

  ?????

  Ash had been practicing in the palace’s target range when Chioni found him. His things had been sent from his father's house to his new room in the palace; his clothes which were mainly just copies of the same outfit, his box of lemons, a few books, and his bow and arrows.

  He’d been mindlessly shooting, relying on the muscle memory he'd built up over years of staying in the house without much to do other than shoot arrows and read books. He’d shot an arrow at an atrociously wrong angle, startled by his unexpected visitor, and tried to swallow his embarrassment when she proposed a round of chess. She had a gap of free space due to a last-minute cancellation.

  They had been at it for about fifteen minutes now. It was eight in the morning; birds chirped cheerily on the branches outside the windows, hopping over to chitter with their friends. Did birds have friends? Were they capable of complex relationships, like humans?

  Probably more capable than I am.

  Ash moved his pawn diagonally, taking the princess’ bishop in the process and landing it extremely close to the end of the board.

  Her hand hovered over her pieces, before she slid forward a pawn.

  She didn’t seem to enjoy chess very much. She kept moving pieces to places they couldn’t go and forgetting where other pieces were. But she seemed to be trying, and he appreciated that. She’d taken time out of her busy schedule to sit down with him.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  “Your move,” she said, sitting back a bit. Her blue eyes seemed almost puzzled as she studied the board.

  He wondered why she hadn’t picked something she personally enjoyed more. He did like chess, but if she was being considerate of that, he wasn’t sure where she’d gotten that information. “Check,” he said, sliding over a bishop.

  “I’ve been too reckless with this,” she muttered. Then, as though reciting something, she added, “‘Chess cannot be played with a troubled mind. Emotions blur reason, and without reason, one loses everything’.”

  “A quote?” he guessed, while his brain went: If that’s true, it’s a mystery I’ve won a single chess game in my entire life. Even now, his palms were way too sweaty, and his foot kept tapping under the table.

  “From one of Tessera’s most famous generals,” Chioni confirmed.

  He hoped she wouldn’t ask for the name. He hadn’t prepared himself for a test. He shifted a knight over. “Uh — check, again.”

  Her fingers hovered over her king, before she paused. “There’s no way for me to win this, is there.”

  “No,” he agreed. “You could keep moving back and forth between the same squares forever, but that wouldn’t be very productive. You can’t win anymore, and I can only win if you give up.”

  “Then I suppose I shan’t waste your time,” she said, flicking over the piece. “I’ll surrender. The kingdom is yours.”

  “There’s not much of it left, though,” he commented, with a small laugh, glancing over the hordes of captured pieces. “Both our armies are in ruin.”

  She waved her hand dismissively. “You have twice the amount of territory you had before. Plenty of room to rebuild.”

  “That’s true.” But he wondered if that was worth all the pieces that had been sacrificed in the process — from her side, mostly. It didn’t matter, of course; the board would be reset as it always was with the next game. “. . . Why don’t we do something else?” he suggested. “Something you enjoy?”

  “‘Chess is good for mental stimulation’,” she said, in the most monotone voice he had ever heard. She paused, before sighing and leaning forward onto the board. “I don’t know what that would be. Unless you’re interested in sitting around drinking tea for an afternoon.”

  That actually sounded rather pleasant to him, but he sensed she wasn’t very enthusiastic about that prospect. “Well . . . what do you like to do?” he asked, nudging the pieces back into their places. He tried to think of various hobbies in his head. “Reading, knitting, carving, pottery, painting —” Why am I suggesting art? My art skills are miserable. “— er, doing math problems, carpentry, weaving, fishing —”

  Her frown deepened. “Most of those things, I have never tried.”

  “It’s not too late to start,” he offered. “I’ve never tried most of those things, either. We could try some out together.”

  “I used to enjoy sparring . . . but the Service Stone . . . has complicated things.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Because of the enhanced strength?” I guess I never considered that might have negative effects . . .

  She nodded, blue eyes taking on a stormy, brooding look.

  “Why don’t you . . . put the stone down for a bit?” he suggested. “Um, I read somewhere that the stone’s powers are temporarily suspended when disconnected to its holder, though the bond remains. So . . . the ‘safeguard’ should still be there, and you can summon it back at any time —”

  “I can’t.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t summon it.” Her voice dropped, the harsh scrape of steel against stone. She hunched her shoulders.

  He blinked. “Oh.” He’d sort of assumed it was the stone’s default, that all four legacy gems naturally zipped back to their holders when called, held on magnetic strings. He’d once forgotten to transfer the Change stone over when he’d put on his jacket, and only realized at the door. The stone had practically leapt into his hand from across the room.

  “Besides, I need this,” she said. “I need to practice. It’s a matter of discipline. Statheros’ strength is a gift coveted by many — every monarch before me has worn his stone constantly.”

  It’s tradition.

  “Queen Dynami, she . . . she spoke of it as a comfort.” She tugged the collar of her coat up higher.

  Her mother. Of course. Chioni had told him — the queen had transferred the stone to her in the last conversation they ever had. Of course she couldn’t bear to let go of it. Ash cursed himself internally for being so ignorant.

  “I’m sure there’s another solution,” he said, all in a rush. “There has to be a pattern. If we can figure out how and why it goes haywire, then we can —”

  “It isn’t meant to do this. Legacy gems are made of the purest material there is. Synthesized from the souls of the Founders.”

  “But it is,” Ash said, putting his palms down on the board. “A lot of things aren’t the way they should be —” Me, for instance. “— but that doesn’t mean we can’t address them the way they are.”

  She watched him for a moment, before asking, “Who said that?”

  “Um.” He fiddled with his sleeve. “I did.”

  She almost smiled, then shook her head. “Perhaps Resta’s gift is wisdom.”

  “I don’t know about that,” he said. “I’ve just had a lot of time to think.” By myself. In my room. He cleared his throat. “We can figure this out, Chioni. And — in the meantime, we can find something else.”

  “I doubt I’ll be allowed the time for that,” she answered, her gaze flitting to the door. “I’m surprised my advisor hasn’t already barged in to drag me away to another meeting.”

  “. . . I still stand by it,” he said. “The offer I made.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “To make my schedules?”

  He nodded, feeling strangely blasphemous.

  He loved budgeting, and scheduling was really quite similar. Putting everything in nice, neat, understandable categories, breaking something big down into tiny pockets. Categorizing, prioritizing, creating rules and regulations and boundaries with numbers. The number of budgets he’d made — for his household, for the government, for the lady who lived down the street with her nine dogs . . .

  Of course, most of them had been theoretical, just like his drafts of new financial plans for Tessera to account for the changes made by the Magic Ban, and his hypotheticals on how to reintroduce magic in a way that would benefit the economy, but the ones that had made it to reality had been of use.

  He thought.

  He hoped.

  Unless he’d accidentally sent that poor lady with her nine dogs spiraling down into bankruptcy, and taken his family down with her –

  “You’re quite eager to take on responsibility,” Chioni noted. Then, “I won’t ask this of you. Focus on your preparations as your father’s heir and holder of the Change Stone.”

  He felt that familiar despair sink in. “It won’t be any trouble,” he tried. “This would be beneficial to both of us.” Give me something I can do. Please. Please.

  She was silent for a long moment, searching his face. “Redirecting the requests would be simple,” she said, finally. She tapped the hilt of her sword with one hand, contemplating. “They all come directly to me, before I hand them over to my advisor. I’ll send them your way instead.”

  “Thanks,” he said, feeling an odd sense of relief.

  “If you actually do what you promised, you’ll be the one doing me a favor,” she replied. “Why thank me?”

  “For . . . for trusting me,” he said. “For giving me a chance.”

  “You’re very strange,” she commented.

  “Sorry.”

  “Stop apologizing,” she ordered. “You’re the heir to the Evgenis name and the holder of the Change Stone. You deserve a bit of pride.” She smiled after a moment, as though she’d just remembered how.

  He didn’t know why that made him feel worse. Right, because I know I should be confident, and charismatic, and collected, and calm, and I want to be confident, and charismatic, and collected, and calm, but I still can’t figure out how. Asimi Dilitirio’s face flashed in his mind. She seemed plenty confident. He wondered if she’d be willing to lend him a bit of that. Probably not.

  “Ash,” Chioni said, startling him.

  Was that . . . she said my name, he realized. My name, not my family’s . . .

  “. . . Thank you.”

  “What? For what?” he asked. “I haven’t done anything yet.”

  “For offering,” she said shortly, standing up. “And for . . . helping . . . me.” She said the word slowly, as though trying to pronounce it correctly. She pushed her chair in. “For trying to make my life easier.” Her voice wavered a bit at the end, as she looked down at the board, at all the tiny soldiers living in a world of black and white.

  “Of course,” he said, although it seemed kind of unnecessary to him. What else would I do? “You deserve to have some fun.”

  Besides, he still hadn’t . . . done anything, yet. Anything consequential.

  But she smiled again, and this time it seemed a little more natural.