Ash drummed his fingers over the chessboard, moved a pawn, then glanced back at the letter he’d written. Tilted cursive splayed on his desk, carefully scripted words. He’d asked Chioni for permission, and she’d waved her hand and told him she trusted his judgement. It was honestly the most heartwarming thing he’d ever experienced. Nobody had ever trusted him quite so much before — but it would be all the more devastating when he failed.

  And he would. He always did.

  He looked back at the letter. He’d addressed it to his uncle — maybe he should write another one for his grandmother, one for his cousin, one for his aunt, if she was feeling any better. He didn’t know. He hadn’t spoken to Aunt Athena since . . .

  But why would she want to hear from him? Why would his grandmother? His cousin? His uncle was the only one who’d reached out to him, who’d contacted him. And despite the gibes and insults explicit in every letter, Ash thought that the act itself had to mean something. That under all of it . . . his uncle wanted them to be a family again. There was a chance for forgiveness.

  Bishop takes pawn. Rook takes bishop.

  His father was still out of the country, sorting the border skirmish with Synoro. He looked guiltily at the stack of unopened envelopes on the other side of his desk — Voutyro, writing to him from the empty manor. He should at least give him a response. Tell him he didn’t need to do this anymore.

  When he was little, Voutyro had played with him — his father’s butler, and the only other person who stayed in the house. He was also Kalytero’s only remaining ‘servant’, but he didn’t like that word — he was very specific on being called a ‘butler’ if he were to be called anything other than his name. He always said it with a funny accent.

  He had stayed when everyone else had left; after Ataraxy had disappeared, after Kalytero had gone off to bury himself in work again. He had stayed, and Ash would always be grateful for that.

  But as he’d gotten older, he’d realized that Vou was there only because Kalytero paid him to be there — doing a job, like everyone else. Not wanting to give him more hassle, he’d tried his best not to bother him.

  Pawn takes pawn.

  Just send the letter, Ash. What was the worst thing that could happen? His uncle would write back, telling him this couldn’t make up for the fracture, telling him he’d need to do more. No. The worst thing that could happen was his uncle accepting the invite and showing up. Because that would mean forgiveness, but it would also mean looking the man in the eye and trying not to break in a very public setting.

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  If only Ash had a spine. If only Ash was as callous and uncaring and cold as his uncle described him as. If only he wasn’t as flimsy as a piece of paper left in the rain. If only he had a hint of charisma anywhere in his entire body. Someone like Asimi would have sewn their family back together in a second. But all he had was himself.

  Check.

  He surveyed the board, nudged one of the kings a square to the right. He hadn’t told Chioni yet, but he’d been trying to identify his power since the night he’d been chosen. The sooner he knew, the sooner he could train it, the sooner he could make something of himself. She’d test him properly once the Presentation Ball had passed, per tradition, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t get a head start. Small things, really. Trying to make grass grow. Trying to talk to a squirrel in the woods. Holding lit matches to his fingertips. He’d at least eliminated a few things — for one, he wasn’t fireproof.

  He went back to the history books, looked at patterns in powers throughout the centuries of Tessera’s existence. Change would supply him with whatever he needed most. Resta had been a mindwalker, and also a bit of a prophet. Some speculated the stone granted something that would save each holder from a catastrophe it saw during the Choosing.

  Catastrophe. What catastrophe could his power counter? The economic devastation in the kingdom? He wasn’t sure that was something that could be fixed by a single power, much less a single person. And that wasn’t his job, anyway — that role belonged to the Erisna line, and to overstep would be seen as presumptuous, stone or not. Though, Chioni might listen . . . and as queen, her word would have final authority.

  Don’t be ridiculous, he chided himself. Tychi Erisna had studied her entire life to assume her role. The rest of the noble heirs were all prepared for their duties — all except for him. He was the weak link, the loose screw. He was the only one that needed to be replaced.

  And, as his uncle always made sure he knew, he had a replacement.

  Hybris Evgenis, two years older, already planning to join the military the moment he turned eighteen. That was the Evgenis way; the eldest child of the eldest child became a diplomat, and the rest went into service. Honor in peace or glory on the battlefield.

  Ash stuffed the letter into its envelope, sealed it shut and stared at it for a long moment, the stiff white corners crinkling in his grip. Just send it. His uncle would learn, sooner or later — and if it was later, he’d be furious that Ash hadn’t sent the invite.

  He tripped over his words when he handed it in at the post office, cursed silently at himself on the walk back, then laid in bed staring up at the ceiling wondering what could have possibly possessed him to write it at all. His chess game lay on his table, unfinished, the king a step away from surrender.