I do not pee at school, unless I can get out of class. It’s still a risk, but if I end up in the toilet bowl at least I will be missed. They’ll send a party out to find me.

It’s OK.

Dwarven constitution.

*

Winter’s creeping in, and we’re all hugging radiators in the common room.

Tro’s in philosophy, so it’s just the three of us, Sabre, Justice and I, heads bent over textbooks. Two tables over, a group of the popular kids sit plotting for the winter ball over fancy Starbucks coffee cups and pastries.

“Obviously the theme is winter wonderland, or Narnia or something. All blue and white and glittery.”

“Yeah, obvs.”

They’re getting louder.

“And we’ll do king and queen … the Snow Queen, and…”

“Frost King.”

“Perfect!”

“No it’s not,” Justice mutters, tossing his pen down.

I stare harder at my work, but my friends have heard the whispered slurs and questions: people in the hallways marking me as one or other assumed gender and assuming that I’m somehow wrong. And Justice, he takes things to heart. He stands. Walks over to their table, looming over them, all muscle and charm.

“Uh, hi?”

The ringleader looks up, and sneers. “Yes?”

“Hi. Couldn’t help but hear your plans—”

“Uh-huh.”

He would make a good king. Handsome. Noble. Brave.

“Yeah, no. Just a suggestion: maybe don’t exclude folks with your arbitrary titles, yeah?”

“Huh?”

“The king and queen thing.” Justice resolutely doesn’t glance back at us, and in this moment I love him as much as Sabre ever has. “Some people – whether you know it or not – aren’t male or female, and those two titles don’t leave room for them.”

Blank, hostile stares.

“Just something to think about!’ he says brightly. And his spell breaks.

“Whatever, fa—” He turns away before they say the word.

Back at our table, Sabre and I stare.

“Uhh, Jay?” Sabre leans in, lovingly. “You do realize you just made enemies for life?”

*

On game night, the city is taken, its citizens caught in a mind-spell.

The dragons hide out in abandoned buildings, stick to shadows; everyone’s a danger, everyone the eyes and ears and sword of their new masters.

I wonder whether Chrull’s tyrant gives inspirational assemblies, or promises glitz and glamour like the populars.

*

We huddle round a Winter Ball poster as Sabre reads aloud: “Tickets on sale from form tutors and committee members. £5.50. Feast and merriment included. Formalwear compulsory: ball gowns for the ladies, and suits for the squires! Who’ll be crowned Snow Queen and Frost King? Nominate your royals below!”

There’s the usual: PapaSmurf, and Knobcheese, and Your Mum, along with all the Matts and Chelseas of Years 11 to 13. And there’s me. In thick black pen, etched across both columns: King and Queen.

I’m going to be sick.

This time, I don’t pause at the door. I don’t check for traps. I don’t even glance towards the urinals to see if I have company, just bang into a stall and lock the door.