But how can I, when everyone else is lightyears ahead of me?

“But—”

“Sit.”

I shoot her a look that I hope means I don’t want to sit, but she is unrelenting. Giving in, I climb onto the throne of boxes. It’s a lot higher than I thought. I can see a few rows down, past the banners and the shelving and the booths, almost all the way to the life-sized Prospero display.

It…isn’t half bad up here. Quiet. Not actually quiet, but kinda what it’d sound like if I was sitting on the Iron Throne, or looking out over Pride Rock to a kingdom where no kingdom should exist, here for four days and then gone.

This is my kingdom. This is where I grew up, where I cut my teeth on fan battles and shipper wars, and the sight fills me with…what?

Glorious, insatiable possibility.

Because I am a nobody, but I’m a nobody who wants to leave the world a little brighter than when she arrived.

Minerva was right, and she’s looking up at me knowing she was right. “So? How’s the view, Princess?”

Gloriously full of possibilities. I’ll meet Harper IRL tomorrow and avoid Jasper (aka He-Who-Will-Not-Be-Named) for the rest of forever, get some kick-ass fan art and save Amara. I just know I will.

I hope I will.

I have to.

I sit up straight and languidly cross one leg over the other, then I quote Princess Amara in her familiar Noxian lilt: “The horizon’s wide and I have a kingdom to rule.”

Minerva cracks a smile.

Jess

THE STREETS BELOW ME THRUM WITH a strange Thursday night madness. It feels like the hours before a big concert, tension in the air so alive it’s almost electrifying. Except a concert lasts a few hours and I’m stuck at this con for four days.

Four whole days.

I don’t understand the allure of any of it. The crowds, the lines, the waiting. And I definitely don’t understand dressing up like it’s Halloween—cosplaying, as Dare often corrects me. Ethan’s in the bathroom changing out of his mock-cosplay; he’s shirtless, and sure he’s pretty cut, but my eyes don’t really linger. He’d be a catch if someone burns all of his nerd T-shirts and puts him in some jeans that actually show he has a butt.

As I sink onto the sofa my phone rings, startling me out of my thoughts. I quickly fish it out of my cross-body bag and check the caller ID.

It’s my agent. My heart leaps into my throat. Diana doesn’t call to ask about the weather, she calls when something has gone either terribly wrong or terribly right. She couldn’t have heard about the panel, could she? No one even realized it wasn’t me, did they?

Jess, breathe.

I answer the phone apprehensively. “Hello?”