My veins are acid. Blood drips out my burning nose, down my lip, and onto the stone floor beneath me. My arms curl around my body as I shrink into a rocking ball, back and forth, back and forth. The pressure building in me increases as the magic shrieks for me to free it, but I cannot complete the spell.

I knew it was too complicated.

A scream echoes through the room, and distantly I realize it's my own. It takes the place of the ancient words of power that I should be speaking. Now I'm drowning in agonizing incompetence, unable to release myself from this prison of pain.

Suddenly, the pain and pressure drain away, slowly at first, then faster and faster until I'm nothing but a broken shell, a failure of a caster. Empty.

The tall magician crouching beside me removes his hand from my shoulder and stands, turning to face me. As if it will shield me from the weight of the failed spell, I stay slumped over, aching body limp. Blood still trickles from my nose, leaving my head light and thoughts slow.

"Aster!" he reprimands.

My head jerks up, dizziness washing across my mind and feeding the black spots dancing through my vision.

He looks at me for a moment, derision and disapproval filling out his sharp features. His cloak sweeps behind him as he paces the austere room.

"You've failed again," he finally growls.

I force myself to straighten and sit cross-legged. Pulling a handkerchief from my cloak, I pinch my nose to staunch the bleeding. Across the room, the wooden ball my spell should have held in place slowly rolls toward the wall, mocking me. My gaze tears away from it and returns to my master.

"I'm sorry, Agraund. I will figure it ou—"

He whips around to face me again. The firelight from one of the ensconced torches flickers across one side of his face, twisting his features into a demonic glower. "Aster!"

I flinch.

"This is the third time you've failed this spell, the third time I've had to save you from it, and the third time you've made such a promise. What makes you think that the next time will be any different?"

"I—I—" I stumble around for words, apparently. The malaise in my thoughts isn't helping, and all I can think is how I want to tell him that although it might not be next time, I will get it right eventually. But I would never dare.

My spine tingles.

"Uncle, I'll do better! I'll work harde—"

"You shouldn't have to work for it at all! You're the upcoming Second Son, next commander of all magicians in Morineaux. You're an adult, seventeen, for Antium's sake. Magic is in your blood. Jacqueline is in your blood. This should come naturally to you. It comes naturally to me, it came naturally to the Second before me, and the one before him. It is your fate, boy, and you need to decide what exactly it is that's keeping you from it. You're supposed to be the greatest magician in all of Morineaux, but you can hardly cast!"

He crouches mere inches from me, voice dropping. "I don't want to keep hearing these apologies and excuses. I want you to be the caster you're supposed to be. One day, this country will rest heavily on your shoulders. The success of your Queen, of your people, will be your responsibility. So get yourself together, quit apologizing, and do it!" He shoves up.

Frustration and hopelessness bubble up inside me like water boiling into steam, desperately pressing at my lips in hopes of exploding out. I know I'm failing my country. I know the responsibility I'll be facing. But I don't know what to do other than everything I already have.

Agraund simply watches me, an eyebrow raised.

I straighten up, pulling the bloody handkerchief away from my face. Determination not to fail him and not to fail my country hardens the steam into cold resolve. "Show me the spell again, my lord."

* * *

It's midnight, and the rest of the castle sleeps. Here in my bedroom, moonlight streams around the warm, red curtains over my windows and onto me, sitting cross-legged on the floor. My hand brushes the soft, vibrant threads of the rug my ten-year-old self snuck from my nursery when Agraund forced me to move here. It depicts the history of Jacqueline, a tale I grew up believing though many adults dismiss it as political myths and bedtime stories.

The six Stellries rise from the ashes of the Fallen Star. In the rug's center, Lady Jacqueline spreads her hands out wide. Balls of light float above her palms as she ascends with the rest of the ancient beings. At the bottom of the picture, where I'm sitting, supplicating hands reach toward her, waiting for her to grace them with the world's first taste of magic. The Lady's head is tilted back, eyes closed, a blissful smile spreading across her face. She held more power in that single smile than I've ever mustered in my twelve years of training.

"What am I doing wrong?" I murmur to the Lady. "And how do I fix it?" Hopelessness rises inside me. I bite my cheek. I've done everything Agraund has ever asked of me. Every tome on magic theory in this castle, I've read, studied, memorized. Every endurance exercise, I've practiced until unconsciousness overtook me. Every technique, every trick, every old wives' tale, I've tried it. "Why do I not have the same skill as former Seconds, Jacqueline? Why am I not powerful enough?"

Her image offers no answers.

"Morineaux needs to stay strong, and a Second Son like me is not strength."

Angry and disgusted with myself, I stand, running a hand through my mussed blond hair. "What happens when, Stellries forbid, Agraund dies? What happens when the other countries find out that a puny excuse of a wizard is all that stands in the old Second Son's shoes?"

Echoing silence is the only response in the empty room. The image of Jacqueline lies there, nothing but a carpet. My hope for some supernatural solution dies, and I growl, dragging a hand down my face. "I've lost it. I'm talking to a rug." My tired body sinks into a red armchair. "What am I going to do?"

Go to sleep, the weak part of me suggests. You have a meeting to attend with Agraund tomorrow, lessons to go to, a mountain of paperwork that will keep you up as late tomorrow as it did tonight. And who knows what extra practices Agraund might devise after giving up early today. I'll need to be well-rested for that.

The downy comforter of my four-poster bed reinforces that call, and I rise, tempted to give in. It is late. A proverb of Jeanna, my nursemaid, rings in my ears. You can do more good with a good night's sleep than with two tired days.

I'm not a child anymore, though, and improvement doesn't come to those who simply wait for it.

I stride out of my bedroom into the attached living and dining area. Here, the embers of the fireplace cast a low light across the space. A bookshelf rests on one wall, filled with tomes on magic theory, histories of Morineaux, and textbooks on strategy. In this room, cream cushions rest on the couch and armchair. They surround an ornate silverglass coffee table that sits on a cream and silver-threaded rug. The walls are a dull neutral color in contrast to the warm burgundy of my bedroom.

I march to the books and slide off a leather-bound giant with gold lettering: An Expansion of the Art of Casting. Perhaps there's some secret buried here that I've missed in the past.

There's only one way I know of to improve my casting—cast more. So that's what I'll do. Yet I can't let anyone realize I'm so inept I must practice at absurd hours of the night, which forces me to sneak about in my own home. Agraund will be irate if he learns I'm not sleeping when I can. A knot of dread grows in the pit of my stomach, but I ignore it.

My black caster's cloak awaits me on a stand carved like a twisting tree, and I swing it on. A twitch of my fingers throws the cowl up.

I sneak through the castle corridors to the hall of the first-tier wizards' training rooms. Upon reaching mine, I click the key into its lock and enter. A flash of flint and steel lights the blackened torch on the wall. Some of its illumination spills into the hallway, and I hurry to shut the door.

I turn to face the rest of the room. The shadows dance on a wall of drawers filled with casting materials, cavorting as though taunting the light to come and catch it. The torch crackles in frustration at its inability to banish the darkness completely.

From one of the many drawers embedded in the wall, I gather components—powder, knife, chalk. In the base of the drawer, the wooden practice ball taunts me. Scowling, I turn away from it. Practicing the holding spell without Agraund here is more likely to earn me death than progress.

I sit cross-legged. Progress doesn't come with some swoop of power. It comes with endurance. Arcanum powder and casting knife at the ready, phrases memorized, and rituals in mind, I cast.

My nose bleeds as the hours pass, and my palm burns from multiple shallow cuts. I pay both only enough attention to keep the blood from dripping into my materials. Hunger gnaws in my stomach like a growing beast, weakening my movements and fuzzing my vision. Only when I know that one more spell would spiral me into unconsciousness do I wipe up the blood on the floor and creep back to my bedroom. Exhaustion drags my limbs like iron shackles. Unlocking the door, I slip in.

Something crinkles beneath my foot.

A little white envelope rests on the floor, completely featureless. Something about its anonymity sets off an alarm in the back of my mind. If this is official castle business, there would be a seal, some indication of who it comes from. This has nothing.

As if in a dream, my weary body and muddled mind ignore the warning, stooping to pick up the letter. Six scripted words greet me:

To the Esteemed Prince Aster Jacques