Broken Throne - Victoria Aveyard Page 0,111

the Rift be dissolved, as it was created by illegal secession from the former Kingdom of Norta, and be absorbed back into the boundaries of the Nortan States. I hope I live to see this land thrive beneath a free government and an equality of all blood.”

Though he is throwing away his crown, Ptolemus has never looked or sounded more like a king. He stares down the whirring camera for a long moment. Letting the broadcast spread across our country, into video screens in all our cities, so that everyone—Red and Silver and newblood—might know. It won’t stay within the borders of our country for long. The Lakelands will know within minutes, and Piedmont too. The Nortan States are already rumbling with abdication after Cal stepped down. Another broken throne could spark celebrations or riots.

Elane stays as close to me as she can, just out of the camera’s line of sight. I don’t look at her directly, but her red hair, glowing in the morning light, is difficult to mistake at the edge of my vision. Her father and his Silver supporters are more obvious. They position themselves directly in my eye line, clustered behind the camera in the middle of the long throne room. I stare through them, the way my mother taught me.

The Scarlet Guard brass keep to the sidelines, some leaning against the wall. General Farley looks rigid and tense, her eyes on her feet. She either can’t or won’t watch my brother speak, and for that I am grateful. The less attention she gives him, the safer he’ll be.

Ptolemus doesn’t flinch when he bends his head, raising the pen to sign the official declaration of abdication. His signature is sparse and sharp, impossible to miss. He leaves space below his name, enough for me to write my own.

I am queen now, for a few strange, stretching seconds. I feel different, and also the same. In between, hovering at the threshold of two very different doors. In an instant, I see inside both and what they hold for me. What heartaches and triumphs there could be, in the lives of a commoner or a queen. I tremble as I look at Elane, letting myself find refuge in her. The choice is crystal clear.

When Ptolemus stands up from his chair, the Silver supporters’ attention shifts as one, and every eye lands on me. I feel each of them, a needle in my skin. I don’t need to be a whisper to know what they’re begging me to do.

Refuse to kneel.

I find Cal, half obscured by the sunlight pouring in from the windows. He leans up against the glass, arms crossed over his jacket. I feel a pull of kinship to him, a weight we both know and share. Slowly, he dips his chin an inch. As if I need his encouragement.

I sit slowly, gracefully, my face schooled into a cold mask of content. My mercurial cape drapes over one shoulder, pooling at my feet.

“My name is Evangeline Artemia Samos, Queen of the Rift.” In spite of all my courtly training, I can’t keep the tremor from my voice when I say those words. Queen. Without a king, without a father, without a master. Without any rules but the ones I would make for myself.

A fantasy. A lie. There are always rules and always consequences. I want no part of this. No crown is worth the price I would pay. I steady myself with thoughts of Elane, and the flash of red in the corner of my eye.

“Lady of House Samos. Daughter of the late King Volo Samos of the Rift, and Queen Larentia of House Viper. I hereby abdicate the throne of the Kingdom of Rift and renounce any claim I, or my descendants, might have on this country or land.”

In the end, our speeches had to be nearly identical. Very little can be left to chance or interpretation here. Neither of us can allow any room for misunderstanding, willful or otherwise.

“It is my solemn wish that the Kingdom of the Rift be dissolved, as it was created by illegal secession from the former Kingdom of Norta, and absorbed back into the boundaries of the Nortan States. I hope I live to see this land thrive beneath a free government and an equality of all blood.”

Slowly, I take up the pen, still warm from my brother’s grip. The page on the desk is crisp, a sheet of white printed with the same words we just spoke. The colors

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