"Nash, get up! You're going to be late." His grandmother's voice cut his blissful sleep short. "Nash!"

The shock of the king's sudden awakening pulsed through him. He sat bolt upright. "I'm awake!"

Nash's heart thudded as he scanned his dim bedroom. There was nobody there but himself.

Breathing heavily, he touched a hand to his temple. Pain thudded behind his left eyeball. Where was Benje? Nash could really use one of his headache-healing concoctions right now.

He blinked. How long had he been asleep? He didn't feel rested at all, but that wasn't saying much. His fatigue stalked him through his waking hours and also the ones of sleep.

Nash's eyes fell on the window to his right. Through a space between the closed curtains, he saw that the sunset stained the sky a too-bright orange. Wincing, he reached for the glass of water on his nightstand.

A soothing sip had barely slipped down his parched throat before his apartment door flew open.

Benje flurried into the room. "Great grapes, Nash! I was starting to worry you'd never wake."

"Mother, is that you?" Nash asked.

Nash's joke brought an unexpected twinge of sadness.

Five years after his mother Livh's death, certain things Benje did still reminded Nash of her. Perhaps it was to be expected. Benje had known Nash's mother as well as he did. He and Nash had grown up together.

"Very funny." Scoffing, Benje set to opening the curtains. "Your mother was too soft with you and you know it."

Nash hissed, pulling the dark covers over his head to shield his eyes from the harsh light. "Luckily my grandmother made up for that, didn't she?"

"That she did. It's thanks to her that I let you get away with so much." The last curtain's hooks scraped on the rail as Benje threw it open.

Nash's grandmother Rayn was nothing if not memorable in her severity. Although it had been fifteen years since her death, he still heard her voice in his head, and it still inspired the same terror within him.

Livh had tickled Nash and planted kisses all over his face to wake him up when he was little. She shook him gently when he got older. Rayn, on the other hand, pulled off Nash's covers and commanded him to rise in her sharp, whiplike voice.

Nash's mother had lost patience with him and resorted to the same tactics after she become queen. If she could become so much like Rayn, perhaps it was possible that Rayn had been like her once—bright, lovely and soft?

Nash almost laughed out loud at the idea of his grandmother being anything like her daughter.

Livh was pastel shades, bright flowers and gentle curves. Rayn was dark colors, hard edges and straight lines.

Nash pushed away the preposterous thought and threw the covers off. As he did, he noticed Benje's clothing for the first time.

The other elf wore dark trousers and a tunic belted at his waist. His long blond hair was tied back, covering the tips of his ears as they usually did.

"You look like you're going somewhere nice."

Benje turned from the window to look at Nash, open-mouthed. "You've forgotten. Of course you have. Have you been drinking?"

"Not much."

Benje raised a sceptical eyebrow. His gaze landed on the empty alcohol decanter on the dressing table that hadn't been there the previous evening.

Benje's eyes narrowed. "All right."

Nash caught the disapproval in the line of his right hand man's mouth before he peered out the window.

"The guests are heading upstairs for dinner. I can arrange for yours to be brought to you if you promise to be ready by six."

"Six?" Nash massaged his temples. "What's at six?"

Benje sighed. "It's the show, my good king."

Nash stared at him.

The mention of a show rang a bell, but Nash couldn't quite place it.

Was he the show? Had he become an actor? As much as that sounded better than being a king, that couldn't be it.

"I'm going to need a little more than that."

Benje pursed his lips before speaking in that tone Nash knew wasn't wise to argue with. "Get dressed."

"Benje." Nash groaned as he swung his legs out of bed.

He didn't want to get up. He wanted to sleep until he stopped feeling tired. He'd drink until rest stopped eluding him if he had to. All he wanted was to feel well again, as well as he had been in the years before he had to rule a kingdom and keep the peace with a group of clans who wanted nothing more than his downfall.

He knew Elvenland had potent magic and valuable resources that were coveted across the realm, but the other clans' hatred seemed to transcend what they could gain from his removal from Elvenland's throne. He thought about it sometimes when his worry about the state of his kingdom and realm woke him long before the first fingers of dawn touched the sky, but he couldn't understand it.

Benje stalked across the room then stopped in Nash's doorway. "I'll be back with dinner and something for your headache. When I am, I expect you to be ready to meet everyone who has made the time and effort to attend your birthday festivities."

Ah yes, Nash's birthday. That was what all this fuss was about.

Almost without thinking, Nash reached for a decanter of liquid amnesia on his nightstand, the only thing that numbed him enough to do what he had been born to do even though there was no task more difficult.

Benje crossed his arms over his chest. "King Nash Astor, don't you dare."

"But you don't understand—"

Nash needed his drink. He needed to forget. He'd never get out of bed again if he remembered what awaited him outside of the covers' warm, accepting embrace.

Benje's face softened. He sat down beside Nash, smoothing a hand over the comforter.

"You don't understand how important this is, Nash. You must maintain relationships with your important and influential subjects."

Nash fell back onto his bed, staring at the blank, black ceiling. Later, the stars would come out to embellish the sky, but for now, the fiery sun still outshone them, and the ceiling's tint overpowered their brightness.

"I do my duties. I run this kingdom with your and Isarea's input. What more do people want from me?"

"You know what the realm is saying about you, Nash. How do you expect your people to stand with you if you don't let them into your life? You have to do this." Benje stood.

Nash didn't want to let anyone into his life. Letting his guard down had only ever gotten him hurt or nearly killed.

He couldn't argue with Benje's point, however. If he wanted Elvenland's support, he would have to tolerate some nobles for a few days, convince them he was a good king, and then he'd never see any of them again. That couldn't be too hard.

Only by holding onto that thought could Nash convince himself to give it a try, to be the ruler Benje and Livh had believed he would be.

Benje grabbed the crystal decanters beside Nash's bed and stashed them in the dark space under the dressing table where he knew Nash didn't like to go if he could help it.

Satisfied that temptation was out of the way, Benje said, "Go on. Get dressed. I'll be back soon," then turned on his heel and left the room.

Nash dragged himself through his bathroom door and to the basin to wash up.

He had been groomed to be king all his life, but he never thought it would be this difficult. He had to get out of bed no matter how ill he felt. He had to meet with his guests even when it was the last thing he wanted to do.

They had been arriving since the previous day, and he hadn't greeted a single one yet. To be fair, he didn't know most of them. With Isarea's assistance, Benje had sent out invitations to those he deemed worthy, but to Nash, they were all strangers, names on a list without faces to match them.

The cold water Nash gathered from the brimming basin and splashed over his face washed away the last remnants of his grogginess. The water glowed as it fell back into the basin, purifying itself of the invisible grime that had come off Nash's skin, before returning to its normal transparency.

Nash wished he could fix himself in the same way. He wished he possessed the magic to cleanse himself of the stains of his past so that he could move into his future, clean, clear, but magic wasn't as infinite as it was in the stories. Like life, it had rules and limitations governing its power.

Nash didn't remember being this moody or sickly before he became king five years ago, and he wasn't the only ruler whose health had taken such a rapid descent.

Before her untimely surrender of the crown to him, Nash's mother had withered away while he watched. That was the curse people whispered of, an infection that spread to every head Elvenland's crown touched. But there was more to it than that.

Nash's heart gave a pang. It was at times like this, when he felt powerless and uncertain, trapped in his heritage, that he wished he could talk to his mother. Livh was the only person who knew what this felt like.

Nash would never get used to her empty chair at the dinner table or walking past her apartment to see her smooth comforter, dust gathering on her furniture, everything so untouched, her room so unlived in. It was a painful reminder that she had been gone for years even though Nash remembered the last time she had ruffled his hair and bid him goodnight like it was the previous day.

He would give anything to know how she had found the strength to keep going.

Nash's life had never belonged to him. It didn't even belong to his mother. It belonged to his kingdom, and like Livh, he had to serve her even when his head throbbed in a nauseating rhythm and he could barely keep himself upright.

Wearing only the trousers he had slept in, he crossed his room to his wardrobe. Walking into it, he pulled out the hanger on the far left side of the rail. The seamstresses from Irylen had organised his clothing according to each event of his birthday celebration, and this was his outfit for tonight.

The tunic was the soft silver of moonlight. Nash brushed his fingers over the black detailing along the collar. The embroidery was as delicate as a spiderweb.

The dark trousers were sewn from the shadows of the night. Nash delighted in its coolness and the wonder and mystique of those late hours contained within it.

A glance at the late evening sky reminded him that he had somewhere to be. He pulled the silver tunic over his head before he delayed himself beyond redemption, knowing that he couldn't retreat to the comfort and safety of his bed no matter how much he might yearn to.