Silence clings to the council room like smoke, heavy and waiting to ignite. Around me the Tri-Circle Council murmurs in a low voice; each word carefully measured, each glance filled with ulterior motives. My mother sits at the head of the table, the Queen of Nexmorra, her black eyes sharp and unyielding. She doesn’t even need to speak to command authority, the weight of her gaze is enough to cut silence into the loudest of rooms.

  I watch from my place at the table, silent, unreadable with my multi-colored eyes. That's what I’ve learned is necessary. I’ve learned the game well; keep your emotions hidden, your intentions unclear. It’s what has kept me alive this long.

  “Prince Kaelen,” a general murmurs, purple-eyed and dripping with feigned respect. “The rebels in the east grow bolder by the day. We’ll need to strike soon.”

  I give a small nod, my mind already calculating the consequences of every possible action, but before I can speak, something slams against the floor.

  I don’t flinch, I never flinch. I wait a second to look up. Noise in the palace is common, there are always servants rushing about, dropping something, causing some small disruption. But then I hear a loud curse followed by the unmistakable sound of someone tripping. A string of clumsy apologies follow.

  I glance, already annoyed, to see her; a woman, barely in her twenties, a glassborn grey-eyed freak of course. Her hair is a wild mop of brown that looks like she just rolled out of bed. She’s standing there clutching a tray full of red wine. With her cheeks flushed bright red.

  Before anyone can react she somehow stumbles again; lurching forward and smashing the tray right into my crisp white suit. The glass shatters across the stone floor, the deep red wine spreading a sticky stain over the precious fabric of my outfit. Silence fills the room for a moment, and I can feel every eye turning towards us.

  The room is tense with disbelief.

  The woman starts to laugh. LOUDLY.

  I can feel the irritation rise in me immediately. How dare she? How dare she act as if this is anything less than an offense against the throne?

  I stand my chair scraping against the floor, and I stare at her, cold and filled with disdain. Filthy Glassborn.

  “You’ve made a mess,” I say, my voice like ice. “Clean it up. Now.”

  The girl; Elira, I think, though I couldn’t care enough to remember her name. She looks up at me, wide-eyed, but still grinning. A bold, cheeky smile as though I’m the one in the wrong.

  “Guess I made a bit of a mistake,” she mocks, brushing off her hands as if she has just knocked over a vase, not ruined the heir's suit. “But accidents happen, don’t they?”

  She doesn’t bow. Doesn’t cower. Doesn’t even flinch.

  I can feel the tension in the room rise as the nobles watch, uncertain whether to laugh or to reprimand her. I wait, my gaze hardening, and when she finally takes a step forward to clean up the mess, I don’t speak again. But I watch her every move.

  And for the briefest moment, something inside me stirs; frustration. Intrigue. I shouldn’t care. She's a glassborn. A nobody.

  Though, she acts as if she’s higher than me. That irritates me.

  She is everything I’m not. Loud, reckless, bright. She trips over her own words. She knocked over candle stands, and dropped a bowl of soup in my lap during a war council meeting and giggled.

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  No one had ever giggled at me before.

  The suit was ruined. The council was furious. My mother said nothing which was worse than any reprimanding. And now less than twenty-four hours later I’m back in the same council room where 7 black-eyed leaders, 3 purple-eyed generals, 3 green-eyed advisors. Then there's me; the odd one out–though the most powerful. I have a purple eye and a black eye; both control and power.

  I should despise her. Instead, I continue to watch her.

  She’s kind. Too kind. She helps everyone. Laughs easily. Doesn’t care about social classes or castles, not even consequences. She speaks her mind, and looks me dead in the eyes when she says it. Green-eyes are weak only able to do petty party tricks; If it were up to me they wouldn’t be part of these meetings. Luckily, grey-eyes Pathetic Glassborns are dismissed from any political power.

  I dressed in black today, not wanting to have the grey-eyed freak stain my suit again.

  The morning sun is colder than yesterday; the air thicker. Everyone is quieter than usual, edged waiting for a signal.

  I give them none.

  The generals speak one by one, Carefully avoiding the mention of her–Though I know everyone is thinking it. Wondering why she’s still breathing. Wondering if this means something–if I’ve gone soft, or mad, or if I’m playing some long game and they haven’t caught up yet.

  Let them wonder.

  I don’t speak until I have to. When I do, my words are precise, unemotional. Orders, not opinions. I will make sure of it. I can’t afford another crack in the mask.

  And then, just as I’m finishing a pointed strategy for routing supply chains through the Drymarsh Corridor, the door creaks open.

  A figure slips into the room.

  Her.

  Elira.

  Same wild hair, same flushed cheeks. This time she’s balancing a silver platter of tea wobbling slightly with each step. Each of the nobles stiffen. One mutters under his breath.

  I don’t move. I watch.

  She doesn’t trip this time–though it certainly is a close call. Her boots scuff loudly against the stone. Leaving a dark scuff mark. She nearly elbows a priceless vase off its pedestal as she turns the corner.

  My mothers gaze follows her, as sharp as a blade.

  But Elira doesn’t notice. Or maybe she just doesn’t care.

  She stops behind me, reaching forward to pour tea into my cup her hand brushes mine–most likely on purpose.

  “Still wearing dark colors,” she mutters under her breath in my ear, giggling slightly; no one has ever giggled at me before. “Scared of a little red wine?”

  I hear someone choke on their own breath a little down the table.

  I slowly turn my head, just enough for her to see the icy look I give her. The one I use to make grown men tremble.

  But she only grins. As if we are sharing an inside joke. As if I’m not planning seven ways to have her removed from the palace by nightfall.

  Or maybe not.

  Because something in me doesn’t move to stop her. Not yet.

  She finishes pouring the tea and walks away, Humming off key, the sound utterly wrong for this room. For this world.

  As the council resumes, I sit there, hands folded in my lap, eyes locked on the map spread across the table.

  And I think about the way she smiled.

  Like she wasn’t Afraid.

  Like she belonged here.