RONAN OFTEN REMEMBERED THE MOMENT WHEN Valencia found him. A year ago, Ronan Oliver-Beck plowed fields on a farm in a satellite state of the Lehuan empire. Their crops were taken from them by Emperor Andreas to feed his people in the capitol and neighboring cities. Ronan sucked in a breath as he remembered his frail body, how his spine protruded from under his skin, how his hair fell out in clumps.

Valencia, a new political figure quickly gaining recognition, lived close to his farm. Her house was the nicest, newest, cleanest one for miles. As Ronan stood outside Valencia's home, he smelled roasting meats and vegetables, spices and warm bread. Getting into the house through the open back door was easy; the kitchen staff didn't even glance at him as he eased his way into the kitchen.

Ronan put on an apron and acted as though he was preparing a soup. When the rest of the kitchen staff finally began to set the table and serve, Ronan picked up a loaf of bread and ran out the door. He only stopped running when he was half-way to the farm. He sat down on the side of the dirt road and stared at the golden bread.

It melted in his mouth when he finally decided that the guilt of stealing Valencia's bread was not as important as the hunger in his stomach.

Two days later, Ronan did the same thing. And again, and again.

The sixth time, Valencia confronted him herself.

"Put the bread down," she said, "join me at the table instead."

Ronan's heart raced; he had never stolen before and now he had a one way ticket to jail. He cautiously followed Valencia to the table. Her big, brown eyes watched him as he sat close to her seat at the head of the table.

"My Lady," Ronan begged, "It was just bread to satiate my hunger. Please have mercy. Please do not—"

"I know," Valencia said, "and I understand."

After the food is served, Valencia asked, "What is your name?"

"Ronan Oliver-Beck," he said.

She nodded. "And I'm Valencia Lenard. What is your job?"

"I'm a farmer," he said.

"And I work in politics," Valencia stopped to think, "Actually, I would like to know your opinion on Emperor Andreas' forced famine here."

"Oh, my lady, it is the most evil thing of him to do," Ronan said, "He's taking our food to feed the rich, who I'm sure could afford food elsewhere. We are starving while they celebrate. Will he ever show mercy, my lady? What have we done to endure this famine?"

"I agree," Valencia said, "which is why I have made it my goal to end Andreas and Cyra's rule, thereby ending the forced famine and all the other detriment they've caused. Will you join me, Ronan? Support me and help me along on this journey to greatness?"

Valencia's strong voice called out to him. His heart earned to say yes. Ronan smiled, unknowing that in five months time, Valencia Lenard would be the empress of Lehua.

"Yes," he said.

"I won't disappoint you," Valencia promised with a white toothed grin.

•   •   •

"SO, I'VE HEARD ABOUT YOUR PRISONER," Ronan said to Valencia as they walked down the hallway to the dining room. "And I don't approve of it. The minute the news escapes the palace, which it will, your ratings are going to go down. People don't want you to become another Cyra Stone."

Valencia rolled her eyes. "He's not my literal prisoner. Give him a job, if you must."

"Then why was he seen walked to his new room handcuffed and with guards surrounding him?"

"He's not handcuffed anymore," Valencia said.

As they turned the corner and entered the dining room, Ronan came face-to-face with Valencia's faux prisoner. The dark haired man was in fact not handcuffed; his hands were busy shoving food into his mouth.

"I definitely do not approve," Ronan whispered.

Valencia introduced both men to each other. After they offhandedly greeted each other, Ronan and Valencia served themselves from the spectacular buffet the chefs lined up.

"Is the food good, Elliot?" Valencia asked.

"Of course," he said with his mouth half-full.

Ronan scrunched up his nose with disgust, earning a stern glare from Valencia.

"Why is he here?" Ronan finally asked the question looming in not only his mind, but in all those who had heard the rumor of Valencia's prisoner.

"I second that," Elliot said.

Valencia looked at each man, then said, "Ronan, you said I should talk to someone about my nightmares. When I met you, Elliot, I thought perhaps it could be you who helped me. Will you do that for me, Elliot?"

Ronan suddenly felt terrible for thinking so negatively of Elliot. His empress was doing the right thing here, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong with Elliot. It might just be his eyes, Ronan thought. They reminded him of Caspian, the former prince.

"Yes, Your Imperial Highness," Elliot gleamed. "Thank you for your mercy."

A smile lighted up Valencia's features. Her dimples showed. "It is what I do. It is how I rule — liberally and mercifully."

"Long live Empress Valencia Lenard," Elliot said and Ronan echoed him wholeheartedly.

Ronan loved Valencia's way with words. She could sway anyone to believe whatever she wished. She easily convinced Ronan to support her on her quest to become empress all those months back. Now she convinced Elliot to become her therapist of some sort.

"You'll have to clarify Elliot's position at court," Ronan advised, "so that these prisoner rumors are put to rest."

"Right," Valencia said, "put out a statement saying that Elliot is my — my —"

"Friend," Elliot finished for her, "A friend that detective Fowler wrongly accused of burning down Lord Howell's townhouse."

Ronan glanced at Valencia, sure that his empress wouldn't put the blame on their friend Ophelia. The detective did no harm; Elliot was actually an arsonist and Ophelia should be given the credit of bringing justice to the Howells.

"Put the statement out forthwith," Valencia said, jaw set.

Ronan looked at Valencia in the eye. "You can't protect him by jeopardizing Ophelia's reputation."

"No," Valencia stared off past Ronan, "she did that herself."