There’s a knock on the door. I walk across the room and open it. Shelby slips inside and shuts the door. I wonder how she knew I’d be here rather than in my room, then realize—she probably always assumed I’d be here. This is the Eldest’s room, and whether I take his name or not, I’m still him now.

“I—oh,” she says when she sees me.

“Yes?”

“Um . . . Is that wise?”

“What?” I follow her gaze. “The robe? Eldest wore it.”

“Yes, but . . .”

“What did you need me for?”

“I think everyone’s here now, sir,” she says, squaring her shoulders.

For a moment, the robe seems to swallow me. I force my spine straighter and head to the door. It zips open.

A wave of silence washes over the entire crowd—those standing nearest the door cease talking immediately, then those behind them follow suit. And it is a crowd. I’d never realized how big over two thousand people looked when they were all looking at you.

Their eyes all follow me as I cross the short distance to the dais the Shippers have set up for me.

“You chutz!” a voice bellows across the crowded room.

The people in the room seem to move as one to make a path—and marching through that path is Bartie.

“What right do you have to wear that robe?” he shouts. His face is red, even the tips of his ears.

“I’m—” I stop. I can’t say I’m Eldest—I never claimed that title. And the robe is for an Eldest only.

In the end, it doesn’t matter that I didn’t have anything witty to say to Bartie, because once he gets close enough to me, he knocks me aside so forcefully that I stagger back against the wall.

“The frex?” I say, but my words are drowned out by Bartie’s voice.

“Are we going to put up with this?” Bartie roars, turning to the crowd. “How can this child dare call us all together and parade in Eldest’s robe? He’s no Eldest—he’s no leader!”

And they cheer him.

Not all of them, certainly, but enough. Enough to make the sound of their support swirl inside my brain, soaking into my memory like water into a sponge.

“We deserve a new leader. One chosen by us!”

I grab Bartie by the elbow and spin him back around to face me. “What the frex do you think you’re doing?”

“Your job,” he sneers.

“I can do it myself!” I shout back.