Darkness cloaks my room. Sleep gnaws at me, trying to pull me into the depths of my subconscious. But I can resist. Part of me is wired, hyperactive with anxious anticipation. I'm expecting a visitor tonight, and not the friendly kind. I don't want to fall asleep and miss him.

Moonlight streams through my drawn curtains, into a pool on the wood floor. I stare at my only light source. If I were in total darkness, I might lose it. Because of nature's nightlight, I know I'm alone and that my visitor hasn't come yet. Though a strange fear encapsulates me at what might pop out of the walls, emerge from my bathroom. So my eyes stay fixed on the milk-white spot in my bedroom, focusing on the light that's about to illuminate two, almost three, murders.

The air stirs outside my window. I snap to attention despite my exhaustion. Adrenaline clears a path through my head, creating a sword-sharp focus. I hear a scrape, scraaape, scrape against my window, then the woosh of it opening. The curtains sway, two shoes tap the floor, and I'm struck with the strangest sense of deja vu. My heart speeds in my chest.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

My killer has come.

A figure steps from behind the lacy fabric. The person wears all black, even as a sock-like mask over the face. Won't be so anonymous anymore. Moonlight shines on thick, leather gloves, the king worn when there's a job to be done, a messy one. Fingers pulse around a clutched object, small enough that a single hand conceals it.

Energy pulses through my body, ready to burst should the moment arrive. The figure inches closer and closer, taking an arc around the moon's beams, then stops by my desk. My fist closes around the dagger Sigvard me during the Festival of Fallen Roses. Should anything go wrong, I will fight for my life.

The figure's palm opens to reveal a tiny glass vial. Sweat beads on my forehead. It has to contain poison, perhaps tactile, the same kind my father died from.

I should close my eyes to complete the act, but I can't. Instead, my eyes shift to the end of my desk. He's three steps away from it.

Just a little closer.

My assassin pops the cork off, letting three drops of death fall on the right glove. With the swiftness of a predator, the distance closes. In a heartbeat, the masked figure looms overhead, too fast for me to play unconscious. Shadows seal around him equally fast.

"Freeze!" a guard bellows. "If you lay one finger on our future queen, you won't live to tell the tale."

The figure turns to a statue, surrounded by three guards and their glinting swords. Uncle Rothbart steps from behind my wardrobe on the other side of the room.

"The gloves are poisoned," he warns them. He must've seen Sewale's actions as clearly as I.

One guard, who wore gloves as a precautionary measure, pulls the leather from the figure's hands, dropping them into a bag.

"Remove your mask," I demand. Two large hands raise the black material to expose the face of Sewale Tharbort. He maintains a neutral expression, but his eyes flick about the room, as if he's looking for a way out. The other two guards rush forward and shackle his hands and feet together.

"It was you all along," I say.

"You can't pin anything on me," he declares.

"We'll see what the court has to say during your trial," I retort . "We have evidence against you."

"I...didn't realize this was your room."

"Seriously?" I fold my arms over my chest. "Whose did you think it was?"

"I was going to see Clemaina," he says.

"Sure. You crawl through a window dressed in black, face masked, and slowly approach Clemaina with a poisoned glove. Separately, maybe you could explain one of those occurrences. But combined, you stand no chance. It's over, Sewale."

Rage simmers below my skin, about to break loose. Here, half-sickly pale, half shrouded, stands the man who stole my parents, the man who tried to send me and my half-sister with them.

"How could you do such a thing?" I burst out. "How can you live with so much blood on your hands?"

"And just who are all these people you refer to?" he spits.

"My father and mother. Nearly me." Nearly Odeia, too, but I can't say it aloud. Not yet.

"Your mother?" he says with a cruel snicker. "What do I have to do with her?"

The inferno inside me is about to explode. How dare he laugh when I mention her!

"You have no respect, do you? Not even for a former Queen of Saursi, whom you killed. Have you no conscience at all?" Uncle Rothbart places a hand on my shoulder, but it does little to quell my rage.

"I never touched your mother," Sewale says. "What I did get was darn lucky when Odeia murdered her, practically handing me the crown."

"You're not going to pin your actions on Odeia. We have evidence, we'll prove it was you."

"Whatever you have is fake," he scoffs. "I never touched her. And you can't pin the king's murder on me, either."

I'm so angry I can't respond. A guard starts to pat him down for any weapons, while Uncle Rothbart lights a lamp. The other two keep their swords trained on the back of his neck.

I never touched your mother.

Well of course not. He poisoned her. He didn't need to be anywhere near her. All he had to do was dump the poison inside her tea cup, the poison he took from his parents' house.

The guard frisking Sewale removes a long strand from his pocket. Angled in the light, I can see that's wire with a tiny hook on the end. In the same pocket, the guard finds another liquid-filled vial. I'm about to ask what they are when the door creaks. Brown eyes glitter in the dim light, staring through a narrow crack.

"Come in," Uncle Rothbart says.

The door closes, but the guard with the lamp runs over, flinging the door open.

"Clemaina?" My brow creases. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, hello, Aylo," she says, smoothing her neat hair with a hand encased in silk. "I thought I heard something strange. I wanted to make sure you were alright. Sewale, what are you doing here? And why are your hands cuffed?"

I blink at my sister for a long moment, taking in her nightgown and the gold, unlit candlestick in her blue-covered hands.

"Well, if everything is fine, I think I'll go back to bed. Good night, Aylo." Clemaina inches her way outside.

"Hold on a minute," I say. "Why is your candle unlit?"

Clemaina's brown eyes stick to the metal object. Her jaw shifts the slightest bit. "It...it must have blown out on the way over."

Something I read pops into my head, a lesson long forgotten. What was it that nagged me? What couldn't I put my finger on?

"Why did you put on gloves to come see me?" I say, pushing my quilts off me. I walk to my desk, shuffling books around until I find the one I'm looking for—the finance ledger from the year my mother died. My eyes scan the March accounts for one person's purchases.

Clemaina - makeup: 43 s., scarf: 5 s.

"Aylo?" Uncle Rothbart says. "What's the matter?"

It was right there in my lessons the whole time. It was right there in Evlyn's testimony the whole time. I was just too blind not to realize. Or perhaps I did realize, and it was too awful to believe.

Different people, same purpose. Different murders, same purpose. There were two all along.

And they both wanted the crown.

"Clemaina, what did you buy before Mother died?" I ask.

"I don't know what you're talking about." The quaver in her voice begs to differ.

"Why would you have any use for a scarf worth five saurs?" I ask. I regard her face, pale and taught. "Tell me, how will you look when you're old?"

"W-what?"

"You've already gotten a glimpse into the future, didn't you?" I say, drawing closer. "When you dressed as an old woman and paid the Tharborts for the poison."

"I never bought anything of the sort." She puffs out her cheeks. "Really, Aylo, this has gone far enough!"

"What did you do the night Mother died?" I'm closer now, inches from her face. I yank the candlestick, or more likely, weapon from her. It slides right off the blue gloves, her attempt to hide fingerprints. "Tell me, Clemaina!"

"I got her some honey for her tea!" Clemaina tries to match my anger, but she can't compete with the storm rising from my well of sorrows, crashing through my veins and echoing in my bones.

"But why would you take up such a task?" I demand. "You of all people. You expect life to be served to you like tea cakes, tailored for you like dresses. And yet you volunteered to go all the way to the servants' quarters, running an errand that could've been done when the servants brought up the tea to Mother."

"Mother preferred no sugar in her tea," Clemaina says. "They wouldn't have brought it."

"So why would you go against her preferences?"

"I didn't want it to taste bad. It was her birthday."

"You know what tastes worse than medicinal tea?" I lean in close, forcing her brown eyes to meet mine. "Attsed."

Clemaina inhales, but doesn't let her breath go.

"When you returned, there was a split second when Evlyn was distracted. You took that opportunity to poison her."

Slowly, Clemaina's lungs release. Anger boils on her face, and her fists clench and unclench at her sides. "You little snoop. How could you?"

"How could you send an innocent person into exile? How could you take the life of the woman who gave you yours?"

Clemaina scoffs. "She never cared for us anyway. If she did, she would've tried harder to put us on the throne, instead of giving it away to Odeia."

"You mean put you on the throne. All you've ever cared about is yourself. You never will deserve the throne. It should be Odeia's."

A snear twists onto Sewale's face. "Oh, sure. The king's golden daughter who can do no wrong. The heir, who's too good for everyone else."

"You never deserved the crown either, Sewale," I say.

"That's enough," Uncle Rothbart says. "Clemaina, did you actually kill Queen Diane?"

Angry tears fill Clemaina's eyes. She turns away from him, but I know she's guilty, and my uncle does, too.

"You'll have a trial along with Sewale," he says. He motions for one of the guards to set down her weapon and clamp shackles on Clemaina's wrists.

"Did you know about each other's actions?" I ask them. It seems fitting that the two were once to be wed, a match made not by fate, but Sewale's ambition.

"No," Sewale says as a guard shoves him toward the door. "I never knew I had Clemaina to thank for the crown."

"My darling Sewale," she whimpers, her cheeks water-stained. "Is that the only reason you loved me?" She tries to touch him, but clanging metal restrains her.

In that moment, I know Clemaina never heard of the king's promise to Sewale. The frailness of her voice betrays it. Though she was to be Queen, she never imagined that Sewale had eyes only for the throne.

"From the first day you stepped through the palace gates, I knew you were my chance at the crown," Sewale says. "King Ivandor denied me Odeia, but he couldn't do the same with you. You were my golden opportunity, one I patiently waited for for years." He turns to me, now glaring. "If only he hadn't foiled me once more by giving you my kingdom."

"Your kingdom!" Clemaina exclaims. "I was the heir!"

I cut off any bickering before it starts. "You knew, Sewale, from the moment you saw my ring."

"I remember Queen Xenia wearing it," Sewale spits. "They keep its appearance a secret, but anyone with a brain cell could figure out what decorated the queen's finger every day."

"You could've been mistaken."

"Not a chance," Sewale says with a snort. "I saw it for myself, in your room. Ever look inside it?" Slowly, I shake my head. Sewale rolls his eyes. "Of course not. Simpletons like you wouldn't think of such a thing."

"What does it say?" I demand, trying to contain my fury.

"See for yourself." It takes everything within me to stay glued to my bed as the guards lead Clemaina and Sewale away. I can't let myself blow apart. After all, I'm the person who's won.

For Mother. For Father. For Odeia.

I remember it now, the hours after Father gave me the queen's ring. The curtains swayed at the window, even though Matilda ensures it's closed every night. Sewale must've hid behind there when he came to inspect my ring. That's why the box was displaced from its normal spot.

Uncle Rothbart exhales a sigh. He stands by my desk, pinching the bridge of his nose. "That was...unexpected."

"I was surprised, too. I can't believe Clemaina did that." Sigvard was right about her this whole time. Still, I can't believe she, my sister, almost killed me. And yet, I thought Sigvard was capable of murder. He and I are far closer than I ever was to Clemaina. How was I so stupid, so blind?

"The guards will probably try to question them," Uncle Rothbart says. "I don't know how successful it will be, but we'll find out tomorrow morning. As for tonight, try to get some rest."

He blows out my lamp, and shadows fall upon my room. He leaves my room with a yawn. As my eyes adjust to the dim light, I make my way to my desk. Smoky wisps filter into the air around it. The charcoal-colored box sits among others, yet the importance of the jewelry it bears makes it stand out. Carefully, I lift the silver band, tilting it toward the moonlight. Thin, golden strokes curve around the ring's interior. If I squint, I can make out the words, "For the only Rose of Saursi."

For the first time, I willingly slip it on my too-narrow finger. I'm too young to have such a precious object, yet Father entrusted it to me. I will make you proud. I will ensure Saursi prospers.

The ring goes back in its box, too valuable to go to sleep wearing. Exhaustion hits me like a gust of wind, and I practically melt into my mattress. That is until a single, nagging thought reminds me that the window is still open. I groan, staggering across the room to lock it. The moment I crawl under my covers, my fatigue swells into deep sleep.