Reign A Romance Anthology - Nina Levine Page 0,241

for a brief moment. "Long ago I did. Now? No. We've not spoken in years."

"And? Thoughts?"

I shrugged. "Who he is now is vastly different to who he was then." I gestured around the space with a wave of my hand. "But then, we all changed."

"Do you worry he won't fall into line?"

I paused, considering her words. "No. I worry he'll seek to challenge me in the same way he did Tony. And an insurrection is never a welcome prospect."

Victoria swallowed audibly. "What will you do if he wins?"

My lips quirked. "What I do best. Reign."

Katherine

Parliament House

Parliament House had fast become one of my least favourite places to visit. But as Monarch it was my duty to attend every sitting of parliament.

With the government dissolved due to the election, my duty now didn't involve sitting while listening to adults sling insults at each other over the cost of potatoes. Today, my duty was to call the banns for the election, and listen as the political parties put forward their leaders for my acceptance.

While there were two main political parties in Astipia, we had numerous minorities— all of which, tradition dictated, I bless.

The limo glided to a halt at the front of the building, my personal bodyguards getting out to shift the paparazzi back.

"How do I look?" I asked Victoria, pulling at the peripuni that was draped across my shoulders.

"Like a queen."

I rolled my eyes, letting out a small huffing laugh. "Well played."

She chuckled, then the door opened and my mask dropped once more.

I slipped from the vehicle, a smile painted on my face.

Questions were hurled my way as I began the long walk into the building.

"Your Majesty! What do you think of Jonathan Tuhana?"

"Your Majesty! Mr. Tuhana is an open conservative! Do you have any comments on his position?"

The news had broken early this morning. Tony Privatey was out, Jonathan Tuhana was in. The caucus didn't normally release voting numbers, but someone had leaked it to the press. He'd won by an overwhelming majority.

Tony was a fool if he hadn't seen it coming.

I made my way through the crowd and up to the entry, the herald waiting for me.

"Your Majesty." He bowed, then gestured for me to lead. "The throne room is ready to receive you."

I walked the familiar path, my footsteps gentle on the cobblestone flooring. These were the same floors my ancestors had walked, conducting this very duty.

History always repeats.

At the door, the herald lifted his drum, beating out the quick rhythm that had become the soundtrack to my life. A hush descended as the herald announced me to the packed throne room. With a smile at him, I made my way down the gentle sloped walkway to the throne.

When the Isle of Astipia had been conquered, the English bastard King had done one thing right— he'd married the local chieftain's daughter and adopted many of our tribal practices. The design of this room reflected one such practice.

In the Manari culture, no chief or king sat above the people they served. Back before the English occupation, our villages had been shaped like amphitheatres, the chief's tent at the centre but below all those around it.

After the English occupation, the first woman of my line had convinced her new husband to adopt the same practice, explaining that it would guide his acceptance with the tribes. And so it was. When the labourers had built our parliament and castles, laying the stone foundations for our most important places, they had done so using the design of the Manari. These buildings had no stairs, and contained no elevated stages. Instead, everyone could enter our parliament, all were equal, except the monarch who sat below them, a reminder that it was their leader's responsibility to lift them up, and a reminder for the leader of the weight that sat upon their shoulders.

And so it would always be.

I took my place before my throne, looking up at the gathered, taking a moment to smooth my peripuni and settle myself before speaking.

"We gather here today on the lands of my ancestors." I pulled dirt from the pouch at my waist, throwing it in an arc before me. "Under the sky of our Gods." I tossed the rest of the dirt up in an arch over my head.

I began to walk around the dais. "I welcome you to the lands of my people." I began reciting the welcome to country in the language of my people.

"Ma ninj unka murandjeri ualluk yeara ualluk mena knoodei maik."

We are