The heaviness of last night follows me into the morning. A light knock lets me know Helena and Leela are at the door. They carry in breakfast, but I can’t bring myself to even pretend to pick at it, although I hate to see fresh bread go to waste.

They exchange glances over my head, but they don’t push it. Instead, Helena takes her spot behind me, and through the mirror I watch her gather my hair and twist it into place at the base of my neck. She tucks a flower with black petals into my hair and then moves onto dusting powder over my face.

Leela takes over and helps me into the dress Madame De Vries made. It’s stunning, made of a fine black tulle that trails after me with every step I take.

I face myself one last time and when I turn towards the door, Helena opens her mouth to say something, then closes it and turns her eyes towards the floor. She opens the door and waves me forward.

Standing at the head of the hall is the last person I want to see: Nico, dressed in an all black uniform with bright silver accents. His sword—freshly polished, by the looks of it—gleams at his waist.

“Your Majesty,” he says. His voice is so perfunctory, so far away. My eyes slide over his somber form, his funeral uniform, and fall to the rus. Even the red of its thread, which usually seems so vibrant, is now muted and dull.

I ignore him and walk forward.

***

“Your Highness.” A herald falls into a bow so deep his nose nearly grazes the floor. He stands again and opens heavy double doors on a wide room filled with rows of pews in a dark wood, all of them occupied. The sickly sweet scent of hundreds of flowers fills the air, undercut by the smell of incense and wood polish.

The herald stands in the doorway, clears his throat, and in a booming voice, says, “Introducing the Dragon Queen, First of Her Name, Her Royal Majesty, Messalina of Draconia.”

Hundreds of heads turn towards me. I swallow down my nerves and train my eyes forward, focusing only on taking the next step. If I trip and fall now, I think I might have to personally ask Nico to come put me out of my misery. In some twisted way, it feels like I’m walking down the aisle, but all that awaits me is Evren’s casket.

Sitting in the very first row of pews are Prince Griffin, two middle-aged women, and a man I don’t recognize. Messalina and Evren’s parents, if I had to guess. The only empty seat is the one next to Griffin. This morning, he isn’t wearing a smile. Instead, a grim expression sits on his face, so out of place that I want nothing more than to reach out and smooth my fingers over the crease in his brow, the lines tugging his lips down. Instead, I take the seat next to him.

I’m glad not to be sitting next to Messalina’s parents. I can tell it’s them because the resemblance is striking—she got the best of both their features. Messalina’s father wipes at a tear rolling down his cheek, catching it before it can disappear into his salt and pepper beard. Messalina’s mother catches my eye and mouths something, but I can’t make out what it is.

A woman in a long cloak steps onto the platform where Evren’s casket is.

“Guests of the court,” she begins, her clear voice booming through the room. “Today, we give our farewells to the life of a ruler most revered, the Dragon Emperor, Evren Tarasque.

“He assumed the throne at the age of fifteen, and under his rule, Draconia’s foreign relations have prospered. His generosity as a ruler cannot be understated, as he invested significant resources into the development of the southern and western regions of the nation. Emperor Evren will be remembered for his intelligence, his candor, and the devotion with which he served the people of Draconia.”

As the woman speaks, I peer at Evren’s mother. Her eyes are the same piercing red as his, and she wears her silver hair in a high ponytail, just like Evren. Her eyes are surprisingly dry though, her face devoid of any of the grief I might expect to see at her son’s funeral. She looks almost calm, completely unaffected by the words being spoken, and it sends a chill down my neck.

A man in similar robes to the woman begins reading out of a tome in an ancient sounding language, and when he closes it, the sound of it slamming shut reverberates throughout the hall.

“All rise,” the woman says.

Pallbearers dressed from head to toe in black take up the four posts of Evren’s casket. Everyone gets up from their seats and Griffin motions for me to walk first. Hundreds of pairs of feet fall into step behind me in a deafening thud as the pallbearers lead the way towards the cemetery.

When we step outside, I shield my eyes from the glaring sun. It feels wrong, somehow, that the sky should be a brilliant shade of blue, that the flowers should be in full bloom. I’ve never been to a funeral before, but when the pallbearers come to a stop in front of an empty grave, my thoughts turn to my mother, who had to bury her only child alone.

When Evren’s casket is lowered into the earth, an all-consuming grief seizes me.

“Your Majesty.” One of the pallbearers offers me a basket of dirt and tears well in my eyes. I grab a handful and stand at the mouth of the grave, staring at what was once a life, and what is now a box in the ground.

When I throw the handful of soft dirt over his casket, it’s not Evren I’m crying for, but for my mother and for the Annie I was, a woman who might never exist again.