Aurelia woke with the sensation that her body did not quite belong to her.
Light pressed against her closed eyelids—too bright, too soon—and her head throbbed with a dull, persistent ache that pulsed in time with her heartbeat.
She lay still, listening to the faint sounds of the palace waking: distant footsteps, murmured voices, the low hum of life continuing whether she was ready for it or not.
She had worked far past midnight again.
Petitions. Complaints. Reports of tremors along the eastern coast, floods in the lowlands, crops ruined by winds that came too early and stayed too long. Every parchment ended the same way, even when the words were different.
The gods are displeased. The curse is spreading. The queen is to blame.
Aurelia swallowed and stared up at the canopy above her bed.
"So this is what it means to rule," she whispered. "To be awake while the world sleeps."
