Time and time again, I’ve let the rebels get away with their attacks. I may torture those who I deem responsible for violence, but I almost always leave them alive, unable to deliver that final blow. Even when the mist prompts me to kill someone, I always hesitate until it urges me into action. On the rare occasions I do snuff out someone’s life, like at Rusthelm, I feel guilt for weeks. Usually, if there’s even a hint that they’re nothing more than a scared citizen looking for whatever hope they can find in a troubled time, I let them walk free. And I got played. That red-headed fae male is no farmer, and I let out the single person in charge of the strike. He had to be, with the way the other rebels looked to him for guidance the moment I’d appeared. We could’ve prevented this entire tragedy had I seen through his lies and done what rulers are supposed to do.

I sit with indecision and bone-deep grief on the sofa in my sitting room, unable to bring myself to get out of my sleeping clothes or do anything other than wallow. My eyes are heavy with lack of sleep, my muscles sore from how tightly I’ve clenched them all night long. I know I need to apologize to the Velmarans—to Hawthorne—but the idea of facing anyone when I’m so unsettled makes my body shake with nerves. Examining my feelings, I try to uncover what has me feeling so on edge.

Control. I’ve had control over everything that touches this kingdom for three hundred years. Or at the very least the illusion of it. Knowing that someone else made a decision without me brings a tightness to my chest that I dislike. That I loathe, if I’m being honest with myself. And yet—I’ve had nothing but control for centuries, and look at where it’s gotten my kingdom. Thousands of citizens opposed to my rule. A rebellion fueled by fear and hatred. Thayaria’s only revenue-generating export declining rapidly. And along with it, the gut-wrenching fear that something is very wrong with the magic of our land because I can feel the way the aether is declining in Thayaria alongside the flower. The decline might even be my fault, a mist leeching away the magic that I can’t undo, leaving me terrified I’ll accidentally use the colossal amount of magic that comes second nature to me and destabilize the aether. To top it all off, we’re now reliant on the kingdom who attacked us without cause for both our revenue and our wheat. My own magic—I push that thought away, not willing to examine the fear that has plagued me for the last few decades.