Читать книгу Epoca: The Tree of Ecrof - Ivy Claire - Страница 7

Pretia turned over a golden envelope with her name written on it in green lettering. This was easily the thousandth time she’d stared at this piece of paper—her admission to Ecrof Academy, the best sports school in Epoca. It had arrived the day after her birthday, a present even better than her Grana Gleams.

Admission to Ecrof was a mystery. Each year, the academy’s Trainers opened the school’s ancient scrolls to discover the names of the incoming class of recruits—students who were said to have the most powerful grana in the land. This year there were seventeen names. Pretia’s was one of them. She was the first royal-born child in the land, the heir to both the Dreamers’ and Realists’ houses. Naturally, her name had appeared on the scrolls.

She knew what her classmates would say, that she was admitted for her heritage and not her talent. But she was accustomed to being treated differently by everyone. Ecrof would be no exception. Except now she had a secret: her bad grana. She wasn’t so sure about Ecrof anymore.

Pretia looked at the pile of suitcases and duffel bags stacked in her sitting room. Anara had spent the weeks since her birthday in an endless flurry of packing, so much packing that Pretia had begun to worry that Anara had ordered even more clothes for her just to put them in bags. Now had come the time for final preparations.

“It’s only for nine months,” Pretia moaned as her nurse dug through her wardrobe one last time, adding just one more ceremonial dress, just one more backup pair of sneakers, just one more pair of pajamas.

“But I won’t even need a ceremonial dress,” Pretia complained, flopping back on the bed.

“It’s not every day that my favorite person goes off to school,” Anara said, putting a stop to her packing for one moment to kiss Pretia on her head.

“Yeah,” Pretia said. “I’m going to school, not on an around-the-world voyage.”

“Pretia—you do know that Ecrof Academy is on an island, right? If you forget something, it will take ages to get it to you.”

Of course Pretia knew that Ecrof was on an island. There wasn’t a single thing she didn’t know about Ecrof. It was not simply the best school in Epoca, on the most sacred island in Epoca—the former home to the Gods of Granity—but it had produced the highest number of Epic Athletes of any academy in the land. And what’s more, its Head Trainer was Janos Praxis, the most decorated athlete ever to compete in the Epic Games . . . and Pretia’s favorite uncle.

Ever since Pretia could remember, she’d wanted to go to Ecrof and train on the sacred fields, play on the same courts, and use the same equipment as the most famous Epic Athletes. And tomorrow she was going.

There was only one problem. Ever since she had lit Hurell’s flame and then accidentally pushed Davos off the cliff, Pretia had been unwilling to use her grana. She knew it was cursed. It was evil. And she was terrified of what would happen next. There was something dark and uncontrollable in her. She could step outside of herself. Half of her was bad. She was capable of horrible things. What terrible thing would she do next? Whenever she felt a wave of tingling in her limbs or her senses heightened, she remembered Davos disappearing from sight. Why had she lit the flame to the Fallen God? Why?

She saw the way the castle kids now kept their distance from her, giving her a wide berth every time she passed by. She’d looked for Davos, hoping to apologize again, but every time he saw her, he hightailed it in the other direction, as if she was going to push him again. She knew they wouldn’t dare tell on her directly, but there was always a chance that gossip would spread. What would happen when people learned what Pretia was capable of?

Whenever she was tempted to put on her golden shoes, she distracted herself with something dreary—a dull book on the history of Epoca or a pamphlet on ceremonial attire for state dinners. Anything that made her forget how badly she wanted to run, play, compete. Anything that made her forget her cursed grana.

Her parents and Anara thought her moodiness had to do with her missing grana and Pretia didn’t correct them. She could never let them know what she was capable of, what she had done. She couldn’t let them know that Hurell might have granted her wish.

She would go to Ecrof as planned, as she’d always dreamed. But she wouldn’t use her grana. Not now. Not ever. And she wouldn’t be an Epic Athlete. Deep down she knew that giving up on that goal was a small price to pay for never, ever harming someone again as she had harmed Davos. But still, it hurt.

Anara zipped up the final bag for the final time. “That should do it,” she said.

“I hope so,” Pretia said.

“You’ll thank me when you get there.”

A bell clanged through the castle corridors. Anara’s eyes widened in alarm. “Pretia, you’re not dressed!”

“Dressed?” Pretia said. She was dressed, in shorts and a T-shirt.

“We’ve lost track of time,” Anara said, opening one of the bags and tearing through it. “The Ceremony of the Book.”

Pretia rolled her eyes. She’d secretly hoped that Anara and everyone else had forgotten. Another ceremony. Another important function at which she was going to be told how important she was to the nation of Epoca. Another lecture on how she was the Child of Hope—the child for the future. Well, Pretia had grown certain over the last few weeks that all of that was nonsense. The Child of Hope did not push other children off cliffs! The Child of Hope did not accidentally pray to Hurell.

“Can’t they just hand me my book like a normal kid?” Pretia said as Anara began pulling a blue-and-purple ceremonial dress over her head.

“You are not a normal kid,” Anara said.

“How did you get your book? Was there a big boring ceremony with all sorts of people staring at you?”

“My mother gave it to me. And that was that.”

“See—” Pretia began to object.

Anara was now tugging at her hair, trying to flatten and braid it. “Pretia—every child in Epoca receives his or her Book of Grana in a personal way unique to them. If yours is meant to be a ceremony with all sorts of people staring at you, then that’s what the gods have willed.”

“But—” Pretia tried again.

Another bell rang. If Pretia didn’t hurry, soon she’d hear her father’s voice booming through the phonopipes.

“Now get going,” Anara said, pulling her toward the door. “It’s one last ceremony, and then tomorrow you’ll go to school. Then you can be a normal kid.”

One last ceremony—Pretia liked the sound of that. She opened the door and dashed into the hall.

“Wait,” Anara called, “your shoes.”

Pretia looked down. She was wearing her Grana Gleams.

“I can’t hurry if I can’t run,” Pretia said, “and these are my best running shoes.” She smiled over her shoulder at her nurse, then picked up the pace and sprinted through the Hall of the Gods of Granity, which led to the Atrium, where her parents were waiting. This time she held her breath as she passed Hurell’s shrouded statue.

At the far end, Pretia skidded to a stop. She smoothed her dress and patted her hair so it didn’t look like a rat’s nest. A glance down showed that the laces on her left shoe were untied.

“Pretia!”

Her father’s deep, melodious voice echoed from the Atrium below. “How many times have I told you not to run through the Hall of the Gods?”

There was no time to tie her sneaker. Pretia started down the final flight of stairs. “I wasn’t—” she tried. But she knew it was pointless. She could never lie to her father, and he could never stay mad at her.

“Sorry,” she said. The room was semicircular with great columns on all sides that let out onto a balcony that overlooked the Campos Field, where the Epic Games ceremony was held.

King Airos and Queen Helena stood together underneath the high-domed roof. They were dressed, as always, in the colors of their houses—the king in purple and the queen in blue.

Pretia was always struck by the sight of her parents standing side by side, especially by their height, but also by the fact that she didn’t look much like either of them. Some people acknowledged she bore a slight resemblance to her mother. They had the same black hair and the same green eyes. That’s where the similarities ended. While Helena’s pale skin darkened only after much exposure to Epoca’s constant sunshine, Pretia was naturally tan, the color of the people of the Sandlands.

Unlike her parents, who were both tall and sturdily built, Pretia was fine-boned and narrow, more like a long-distance runner than a formidable basketball player or soccer star. And she was short, shorter than her only first cousin, Castor, as well as all the castle workers’ children. But she was only ten, her parents told her, and they assured her that height and strength would come.

The king was large and athletic, with reddish-blond hair that, like his wife’s, was now streaked with silver. His features were round and had grown more so as he aged. Pretia knew the rumor that her father had been one of the most promising athletes in Epoca but had chosen the art of statesmanship over sports when he’d been selected by his father to lead House Somni. So now his stomach was a little larger than it used to be, and his face a little softer. Deep creases ran away from his eyes, the result, Pretia liked to imagine, of years of laughter.

Pretia understood that her parents had been much older than was considered normal when she was born. She had been born late, after much difficulty and sadness. She didn’t quite understand the nature of this sadness, but she could see it written on her mother’s face in the downward turn of her mouth and the distant look that crept into her eyes from time to time. While the king made his presence known at every moment with his rolling laugh and loud, jovial voice, there were times that Queen Helena seemed to retreat so far into herself that she became nearly invisible.

Pretia also knew that people, from the cooks to her royal relatives, whispered that her looks were due to the unusual—some would say unnatural—marriage between her parents. Until the king and queen married, there had been no royal union between Dreamers and Realists. The houses kept to themselves and only competed against each other once every four years in the Epic Games for control of Epoca.

But Pretia’s parents’ marriage had changed everything so that no matter whether the Dreamers or the Realists emerged from the Epic Games victorious, Helena and Airos would still hold power—together. And when it was Pretia’s turn to take control of Epoca, the Epic Games would be even less meaningful, since she would remain in control of the country regardless of the outcome.

“Are you ready?” King Airos said, looping his arm through Pretia’s.

Pretia looked into her father’s eyes. Was he crying? “Are you okay?” she asked.

“It’s a big day for you, Pretia, receiving your Grana Book.”

“Oh, come on, Papa,” Pretia said. “It’s just a book.”

The king placed his hand on Pretia’s shoulder. “No, Pretia, it’s not just a book. It’s the key to the rest of your life.”

Grana Books were a tradition unique in Epoca. Every child had one made for them on the hidden island of Docen by the Guardians of the Book. No one had ever visited this island. But once a child’s birth was registered, his or her parents would report the birth to the Guardians and a book would be crafted using craft known only to those on Docen. Some said that the books were inspired by a child’s parental history. Others said their contents were conjured through prophecy. When the books were ready, they were sent to the new parents to be handed down on a child’s tenth birthday. The books were made to guide children through life, to offer answers when parents could not, and then long into adulthood. They were a mixture of nature and nurture—half tailored to the child’s projected personality and half reflecting the parents’ worldview.

Pretia had heard rumors of outcast or orphaned children unlucky enough not to have Grana Books, who passed through life lost and without guidance. And there were even stories of families who had passed down the wrong Grana Book to a child, which made the child’s work of interpreting the book much more difficult.

Now the queen looped her arm through Pretia’s free one. “Sweetheart,” she said. “You must never dismiss the importance of your book. Now, let’s go. The Speaker of Grace and the rest of our family are waiting under the Gods’ Eye.” And together, Pretia and her parents proceeded to the very top of Castle Airim.

The top floor of the castle was off-limits to most of the castle staff and inhabitants. Only the immediate members of the royal family and their chosen advisers were permitted to ascend into the domed chamber.

Pretia and her parents climbed the increasingly steep and narrow stairs and emerged in the cool, domed room. The Speaker of Grace—a Realist in a somber blue cloak—stood in the center of the room surrounded by six esteemed Granics from House Somni and House Relia. Everyone was dressed according to the colors of their houses in high ceremonial robes with long bell-shaped sleeves and gold corded belts.

A small group of Pretia’s closest blood relatives stood to one side. Her father’s aunt Chryssia, an elderly lady who shook when she talked and smelled of myrtle tea; her mother’s brother, Janos, Head Trainer of Ecrof; and his son, Castor. Chryssia was dressed in her ancient purple Dreamer robes with dozens of golden rings and necklaces, while Janos and Castor wore Realist blue dress uniforms. Janos’s wife, Thalia, was not permitted into the Gods’ Eye chamber because she was not related to the royal family by blood. She would gain access only in the unlikely event that Castor became king instead of Pretia becoming queen. Next to Janos was an empty spot where his and Queen Helena’s oldest sister, Syspara, should have stood. But Syspara had been lost to the family many years ago—Pretia had never met her. Although the queen insisted that place always be held for her sister at royal events, Pretia had heard it whispered through the castle that her aunt was dead.

Janos always reminded Pretia of one of the sturdy and ornate columns that supported the Atrium at Castle Airim. He towered over both his sister and the king. He was the same age as King Airos, but unlike Pretia’s father, he still looked as if he could defeat the youngest, fittest, and most promising athletes in the Epic Games. On the left lapel of his ceremonial uniform were seventeen gold bars representing his seventeen Epic Games gold medals. And around his neck was a heavy wooden whistle he never took off. His arms were like tree trunks, his fists tough like marble, and his jaw square and strong. Despite the stern look on his face, Pretia could see the delight in his deep-set green eyes that were shaded by a prominent brow that cast his face into permanent shadow.

“Hi, Uncle Janos,” Pretia whispered.

Janos winked. But Castor, standing at his father’s side, just rolled his eyes at Pretia.

Castor was a miniature version of his father—compact and muscular with a heavy brow. Pretia knew that the last place Castor wanted to be was in this room watching her, of all people, receive another blessing. Yet there he was as always, forced to watch as people made a big deal about Pretia—the Child of Hope. Pretia understood Castor’s exasperation. Even she wanted to roll her eyes at the stupid nickname the kingdom had bestowed on her.

If Castor hadn’t been so obnoxious, Pretia would have been tempted to pity him, the next in line to the throne after her, always forced to observe from the sidelines on the very small chance that he would rule Epoca one day. But Castor was extremely obnoxious, often whispering behind her back to anyone who would listen that she was no better than a Star Stealer because of her mixed heritage—that she didn’t have two house affiliations, but none. He’d gotten even worse as they grew older. Like everyone else in the royal inner circle, Castor knew, or thought he knew, that Pretia hadn’t received her grana.

The only light on the top floor came in from a single round hole at the peak of the dome called the Gods’ Eye. Right now, with the sun nearly at the top of its climb, a massive shaft of sunlight beamed directly into the center of the room, lighting up the entire perimeter of the wall on which was painted a 360-degree mural showing the fall of Hurell and the departure of the remaining gods from the island of Cora to Mount Aoin.

The Gods’ Eye was designed so that as the sun moved across the sky, Hurell would be cast into darkness, while the remaining gods, who were shown on their final day on earth before they retired to Mount Aoin, remained illuminated until nightfall.

The seven remaining gods had been painted on the eastern wall. They stood in a line that stretched from the shore of Cora to a towering gate, beyond which a boat was waiting to take them to the holy mountain in a secret corner of the realm. The first six gods were looking at the narrow boat that had been pulled up onto the beach, with its two elegant white sails trimmed in gold. But the goddess Cora, after whom the island was named, was looking back over her shoulder at a cave carved into the towering cliffs that rose from the beach toward a green plateau that touched the sky. Pretia knew that just before the sun left the room in darkness, it would alight on Cora’s eyes for a final quarter of an hour, illuminating her longing backward glance.

Every time Pretia stood under the Gods’ Eye, she wondered what Cora was looking at—what she was brokenhearted to be abandoning. She’d even climbed up a ladder an artisan had left behind when cleaning the mural to get a better look inside the cave. But she couldn’t figure it out. Besides the rocky coastline and asphodel bushes, all she could see was a single tree root that burst through the roof of the cave.

Pretia felt her father’s hand on the small of her back urging her toward the Speaker of Grace. Pretia stumbled as she approached—tripping over her untied shoelace.

She stood before the Speaker of Grace, the same man who had blessed her entry into the world, who had said her birthday devotion each year, who had made her suffer through weekly classes in the history of the gods. He was the oldest person Pretia had ever seen, with watery blue eyes and pale skin that sagged from his cheekbones. It had been decided at birth that Pretia’s religious education would come from her mother’s family and her academic learning from her father’s, something that clearly did not sit well with the three high Dreamer Granics looking on under the Gods’ Eye.

Because this was going to be a Realist-dominated ceremony, Pretia knew it would be short and straightforward, a transmission of information without a lot of poetic language. That was a relief, at least. There would be facts instead of mystic statements she’d have to try and interpret later, which was what happened when Dreamers took charge.

“Come with grace, my child,” the Speaker of Grace said, putting two shaking hands on Pretia’s shoulders. He wore an enormous blue ring that, over the years, had grown too large for his brittle finger and swung loosely as he talked.

The room was so silent, Pretia could hear each Granic breathing in and out.

“Today you enter into a new phase in your life,” the Speaker of Grace said. “Today you no longer rely only on adults to guide you, but also on yourself. For today is the day that you receive your Grana Book.”

Pretia stole a quick glance around to see exactly where her Grana Book might be. She’d only ever seen the Grana Books belonging to her parents. Her mother’s was a thick volume, the size of a small painting, whose cover was embroidered with blue and gold. Her father’s book was as wide as her hand and looked incredibly heavy. The binding was made out of bronze that had tarnished to a browned green color at the corners.

“As you know, every child in Epoca receives one of these books after his or her tenth birthday. They are the story of your life in pictures. They are your destiny, your soul, your spirit, and your inspiration. But they do not tell the future. They do not provide clear answers. Your life’s work will be to learn how to interpret yours.”

“How—” Pretia started to ask before her mother gave a polite cough, letting her know to keep quiet.

“Some people never bother to learn to use their books,” the Speaker of Grace said. “Some people devote their entire lives to understanding them. Some people understand immediately what is depicted on the pages, and some force understandings that aren’t there. How you use your book will be up to you. Your grana will guide you.”

Pretia saw her parents exchange a brief look.

“Your book is a special one, I’m sure you understand,” the Speaker of Grace continued, blinking his watery eyes. “It is the first book ever made for a Dreamer and a Realist child. And that means there is no one to help you interpret it—no Granics to guide your way forward. This is a path you are going to have to tread alone, Pretia. Your book has no rules and no guidelines. Everyone’s book is unique to them. But yours is something that has never been seen before.”

Butterflies rose in Pretia’s stomach. Why did everything have to be different for her? Why did her book have to be unlike anyone else’s?

Now King Airos stepped forward, cleared his throat, and addressed Pretia in the regal tone reserved for state occasions. “Until the gods gifted grana to the land of Epoca, we were a country at war with itself. On this day—the day you are to receive your book—I remind you of this story. During the dark ages, the god Hurell turned the houses against each other, forging war and stirring up retribution and hatred between House Somni and House Relia, the Dreamers and the Realists. For hundreds of years Epoca was thrown into darkness, until the houses came together and turned to the remaining Gods of Granity, begging for peace. And this peace was granted in the form of grana.”

Pretia tried to stifle a yawn and stay focused. How many times had she heard this before? She’d lost count. Too many—she was sure of that. Her eyes wandered to the mural, landing, as usual, on the goddess Cora. What was she looking at? And, for a moment, it seemed to Pretia that Cora’s backward glance was not longing, but fear. Then she caught herself. That was silly—gods had nothing to fear, especially not on earth.

Pretia was snapped back to attention by her father’s voice. “Grana is a breath of inspiration from the gods. It’s in all of us. It’s what allows each of us to be the best at what we do. It’s what allows us to be rulers, athletes, artists, writers, doctors, or whatever it is we want to be. And we use our Grana Books to guide us. Because at the end of the day, Pretia, only we can answer our own questions and set our own destinies.” Pretia strained onto her tiptoes, ready to kiss her father, but to her dismay, he hadn’t finished speaking. “When I learned to interpret my book as a young man, I saw the most extraordinary thing. I was to raise a child who was both Dreamer and Realist—a child of hope. That is who you are, Pretia. I can only imagine what wonders your book has in store for you.”

Now the queen stepped forward. She was holding a small package wrapped in blue cloth, which she presented to Pretia. “On this day, grace is yours,” she said.

Pretia could feel everyone’s eyes on her as she took the package from her mother. It didn’t feel special, just like an ordinary book. Still, she didn’t want to open the blue cloth. Her cursed grana might betray her. She worried that her book would start talking or burst into flames or leap from her hands.

The Granics from both houses approached her. The ones from House Relia came first and offered the Realist Prayer, ending with “Guided by fear, led by thought, steered by confidence, may you never go astray.”

Then came the three Dreamer Granics from House Somni, whose prayer ended with the words: “May your inspiration fly freely, toward a boundless sky and a sea of ideas, and lead you to wonders that never cease.”

Then all six Granics knelt before Pretia. “To the future of Epoca,” the kneeling priests said.

Pretia shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably. She didn’t want these grown men and women at her feet. But they remained there, heads bowed, waiting—waiting for what? Pretia heard Castor muffle a snort.

“Your hand,” King Airos whispered behind her.

And for the first time, just like she’d seen her parents do thousands of times before, Pretia placed her palm on each of the Granics’ heads in turn, giving them her blessing. One by one they rose, then disappeared into the shadows of the Gods’ Eye.

Janos approached, an imposing presence. He placed both hands on Pretia’s shoulders and stooped down so they were eye to eye. “Congratulations, favorite niece,” he said. “If your grana is as powerful as your parents’, that book will be one of the most important and interesting ever to be bound in Epoca.” He kissed her forehead. Then he looked at each of Pretia’s parents in turn. “And I thank you both for entrusting Pretia to my care. Tomorrow she will be more than the Princess of Epoca. Tomorrow she’ll be one of my recruits.” With a strong hand, he ruffled her hair. “But I hope you understand that you won’t be getting any special treatment,” he added with a wink.

Pretia’s heart soared. She forgot about the book in her hands. Ecrof—that was the most important thing.

Now Castor approached and stiffly shook Pretia’s hand. He leaned in to whisper in her ear. “You heard what my father said, no special treatment for you. Which means no more dumb ceremonies for me to sit through.” He squeezed Pretia’s hand painfully. “When we get to Ecrof, no more special Pretia.” They locked eyes and Castor raised his voice. “See you on the ship tomorrow, Cousin,” he said.

It was like a balloon inside Pretia had popped—she had forgotten that Castor was also going to Ecrof. Of course he was.

When Pretia and her parents were alone, Queen Helena glanced at the package in Pretia’s hands. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

“I thought I’d wait,” Pretia said. She couldn’t admit to her mother that she was as afraid of her book as she was afraid of her grana. What horrible future might be contained in its pages?

But Pretia knew her parents wouldn’t let her alone until she unwrapped the book. She slowly opened the blue cloth and took the book out. At first glance there didn’t seem to be anything extraordinary about it. It was about the size of an average book, perhaps slightly heavier, bound in thick pebbled leather. The front and back covers were marbled blue and purple, and the binding was gold. She opened it. The glossy pages felt heavy. There were no words, only images—detailed paintings in dreamy, gauzy colors that spread across both pages. She flipped through the book. It made no sense: imaginary lands, still-life depictions of strange objects—clocks, feathers, a glass of milk. One page seemed to be different flowers painted close-up. Another something that was either a maze or tree roots. She saw pages that could be the sea, or perhaps the sky, or something else entirely.

She exhaled, relieved that nothing sinister seemed to jump out from the book. “It’s just a book.”

“The magic happens when you learn how to use your book,” her mother said. “Until then, you’re right, it’s just a book. In time, your grana will guide you.”

At the mention of her grana, Pretia’s stomach clenched, and for the hundredth, no, the thousandth time, the memory of Hurell’s blue flame and Davos flying off the cliff flashed before her eyes.

The king drew Pretia toward him. “There’s something your mother and I would like to talk to you about before you leave for Ecrof. Something important.”

What now? Pretia’s heart sank. Surely it was possible to have a life without everything being so important, so stately, so political.

They led her to the edge of the room, to a small wooden chair, something a toddler might sit in. She sat, trying to make herself comfortable.

“Pretia,” Queen Helena said, squatting down so she could look her in the eye. “Your father and I are wondering about your grana. You’ve never mentioned it. Has it really not come?”

Pretia bit her lip. What should she say? If she told them the truth, that her grana had come, there would be endless questions about when it had started, how she felt, and why she’d hidden it. Pretia was sure the whole story about Davos and Dinara and the disastrous and nearly deadly game of tag in the clearing would come out. And once she admitted that, she’d have to mention what she had done in the Hall of the Gods of Granity. And she was never, ever telling anyone that she’d lit the flame of the Fallen God.

There was no way for her to tell her parents that her grana was cursed, especially after the Ceremony of the Book. Everyone expected so much of her. She knew she’d disappoint them all.

“We love you no matter what,” the king said.

“But . . . ?” Pretia asked. She knew from the tone of her father’s voice that there was more to the story.

“When the gods granted grana to the people, it was so we could rule ourselves with kindness and wisdom. We lead with our grana. Which means that in order to rule, a king or queen must have grana.”

“So if you don’t—” the queen said.

“I can’t rule.” Pretia finished the statement for her. She knew. She’d heard this hundreds of times in passing. But she’d never heard it directly from her parents’ mouths. She knew there were outcasts from society who’d lost or repressed their grana through various addictions—sweet wine and Somnium potions. She had also heard that every once in a while, someone was born without grana and was relegated to the lowest class of society. But she’d never dreamed she’d be categorized with these sorts of people.

“So, please, Pretia, tell us the truth. Have you felt anything at all? Any change?” Pretia had never seen anything like the look in her mother’s eyes, desperate, pleading. “You are the Child of Hope. You must—”

Pretia stood up. “I don’t even know what that means. I’m Pretia. That’s who I am. I’m not the child of anything. Stop forcing that name on me.” She began to run toward the stairs. But before she reached them, she whirled around and faced her parents. There were tears in her eyes. “And I don’t have grana.”

Her kind of grana wasn’t what they wanted. Her grana was deadly, dangerous. It was cursed. And there was no way she was ever going to let anyone see it again. So what if she couldn’t rule? So what if she wasn’t everything her parents and the kingdom wanted her to be? She was going to Ecrof and when she was there she could figure out what to do about her cursed grana without having to worry about all this future queen of Epoca nonsense.