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The bedroom is dark, cool, and comfortable. The hearth crackles softly, the mattress cradles my frame, and a down comforter wraps around me. I've slept well here almost every night for seven straight years. But tonight, my mind won't settle.

Growling, I shove out of bed. This is not the time to be sleeping poorly. I march to my desk. If I were going to be unable to sleep, why couldn't that have been before I left Draó, when nothing but fear of the future weighed down my shoulders? I lean forward on the desk.

"That would be too easy, of course." My voice is thick and too loud. "No—if I'm going to be unable to sleep, it has to be at a time when my performance affects people's lives!" My open palm slams against the wood. The noise startles me out of my tirade, and I sink into my chair, feeling ridiculous.

Old Mage Ciester once wrote that frustration was nothing but people avoiding dealing with bigger problems. Primarily regarded for his treatise on the connection between human emotion and magic, the title 'Mage' is honorary. The man could hardly cast, but he studied the art like no one else. The dishonor of masculinity wasn't nearly so strong four hundred years ago. If he lived today, he would have to take on a female pseudonym to publish, and no one would consider bestowing him a title.

I've always admired his work, though, both magical and philosophical. I related to him on a level I can't with other authors, but Agraund thought me foolish for pouring over the writings of a man that could cast even less than I.

Ciester's words in my mind, I push up and murmur, "So what am I avoiding?" My eyes find Jacqueline's on the rug.

In the silence, I walk over and kneel beside her. When I was little, I thought if I kept her around for long enough, her power would seep into me. The corner of my lips lift bittersweetly at the childish logic. Only hard work and talent can create a powerful Second Son, and I've always heard that it's better to lack the first than the second.

My fingers brush the fibers beneath me. Though this image holds no magic, it has always held comfort for me. I can't help but remember the stolen moments I spent as a child simply lying here, careful not to cover the Lady, dreaming of the day I would be powerful like Agraund, like the Mages of old, or like the first Second Son, Prince Xíeme.

"How I used to idolize you, Xíeme." I laugh softly. I once told Agraund that I wanted to grow up to be just like the great Prince. He only smiled at me and said, Then come practice, Aster.

"I've never forgotten that, Uncle. Honest." The back of my eyes burn. My next words are barely more than a whisper. "I hope you hadn't given up on me. Just because we agreed I was more expendable, I—" I swallow, but the lump that's suddenly grown in my throat doesn't budge.

I drop my head. "I never meant to fail you."

I know what he'd say if he were here—I wish he were because he'd certainly do a better job with this mess than I am—and I can almost hear it.

He'd set his hand on my shoulder. Like all trials, you must put this behind you to progress. Life and skill do not thrive when weighed down by the past.

I stare at the rug. He's not coming back. The man that raised me is gone. I am his legacy. Our people depend on me now.

I rise. I'm not the caster Morineaux deserves or the politician her Ladies expect, but I will be the Second Son she needs. I won't be the one that fails. I won't disgrace Agraund's memory.

I glance back down at the rug and smile faintly. "Thank you." As always, I'm leaving it more at peace than when I came to it. I'm still not ready to sleep, but at least I'm not yelling at thin air.

I pick up a mostly empty journal and some writing material, swinging on my cloak as I go. The library is only a few minutes' walk from the royal wing, and it should be empty, considering the hour. During peacetime, it's a low-tier wizard's job to stand at the heavy door, opening and closing it, which mostly keeps random castle inhabitants from entering. When I approach, though, it's propped open, and I slip inside.

Around me, monolithic bookcases tower like over-serious sentinels. I smile at the old friends, knowing the sternness is but a facade. Here they stand, unwavering, dependable, and carefully holding books and books—every subject from magic theory to classic fiction is contained in their shelves. Fondly, I trail my fingertips over their sides as I look for the case I need. Elaborate relief carvings decorate them, along with tiny, embedded glow crystals.

I've always loved coming here to research. When I was younger, I wistfully imagined that I was possibly meant to be a Scholar in some alternate world where the Scholars accepted men. Once I grew up, I put away those fantasies in favor of searching for ways to work around my magical failings.

A gentle breeze flows past my face, and I'm grateful to whoever forgot to close one of the stuffy room's many windows. Scanning the shelves, I look for the few books that contain information about the Second's staff. When I checked in with Sela and Reyan again this afternoon, she avoided the topic of my coronation as much as possible, finally saying that the preparations will take time. I don't pretend to understand what benefit Sela sees in delaying the matter, but I'm sure the Ladies think they'll be able to contrive some lopsided deal for going along with it. If we weren't in crisis, they wouldn't get away with it, but since we're under a timeline... I shake my head, annoyed even thinking about it.

Behind me something rustles, like wings on the air. I spin. Only the glow of the shelves greets me. Chills creep up my spine, and I search my surroundings. Any other time, my only concern here would be that Agraund was launching a surprise training exercise; anymore, I don't know what to expect.

Nothing moves, and I turn back, unease seeping through my bones like blood through cloth. I refrain from speaking as I continue looking for the section I need. As always, my steps are nearly silent against the floor.

This should be it. I turn onto the aisle, look through the books, and carefully tip one off the shelf. The glow crystal bookends provide plenty of light to read by, and I open the tome to see if it's what I'm looking for. If I'm to remain uncrowned for some time, then I need to find a way to activate the wall defense without the staff.

The spine cracks, and I tense. A few aisles over, something snaps shut. My breath catches, and I look around, fingering my rapier. The quiet swish of cloth on stone grows steadily louder, and my hand closes around the handle. The glow crystals generally give a light tone to the area, but now, they exaggerate the shadows thrown by the dead of night.

A figure rounds the corner onto my aisle. The light bounces eerily off her airy blonde hair, creating the uncanny illusion of glowing. A black dress spills around her, the lacy skirts fluttering to rest with her cessation of movement.

A girl a little younger than me smiles. "Prince Aster. I wasn't expecting to see you here."

Relief leads my hand to release the rapier handle, but still inexplicably uncomfortable, I don't smile in return. "Lady Osennia. What are you doing?"

She shrugs and looks away as if nonchalant, but I can sense the worry in her tight stance. "Couldn't sleep. Who could with those brutes at the wall?" Her smile pretends it's a joke, but compassion fills me. I wonder just how many of my subjects feel that way.

"Oh." I close the book. "We must keep faith. Morineaux will triumph."

She offers a small smile. "She always has." She curtsies and leaves, her dress shuffling against the stone.

After I find the couple other texts I was looking for, I head to the nearest table to read and take notes. A few quick hours pass with me submerged in theory and evidence, and I renew my understanding of artefacts, triggering spells, and use of the staff. Xíeme himself built the castle defense artefacts and made the staff a component of them. It binds to a Jacquelinian caster during their coronation ritual and stays bound until their death. After the ritual, the bound caster can trigger the defense just by holding the staff at the wall and saying the spell's words.

But nothing explains how to trigger the defense without the staff.

Around one in the morning, my drowsiness catches up with me all at once, and I push back from the table. My head reclines on my chair. I need to be crowned. And there's no telling when it will happen.

I return the books to their places on the shelf, discouraged and weary. As I turn to leave the aisle, I glimpse a dark, silky raven's feather lying in the floor. I stoop to pick it up.

"How did you get here?" I murmur.

The glow crystal-trimmed darkness holds no answers though, and deep unease pervades my bones. I slip the feather into my cloak and leave the silent library.

I miss the peace of studying with Agraund. That was always my favorite of the tasks he would give me. Sometimes he would let me do the preliminary research for a project he was working on, and we would sit across from each other at one of the tables, piles of books and notes surrounding us.

I push into my bedroom, locking the door behind me. That world is gone now. I slide into bed, tired and alone.

When I dream, I dream of ravens and death.