The last light bled copper across the water, each wave transformed into a beaten shield that caught fire before dying against harbor stones. Aiyara's fingers found the coral rail again, its rough kiss familiar as her own pulse after years of standing at this very spot. The stone still held warmth from the day, but cooling air raised goosebumps along her arms—or perhaps something deeper stirred beneath her skin, restless as tide before storm.
Below her, Masan breathed. Each terrace contributed its own note to a harmony that had sustained the queendom through centuries of change. My queendom. The thought sent heat spiraling through her chest, but the warmth felt different now—hungrier, as if her pride had grown teeth.
She lifted the brass instrument one final time, feeling its weight settle in her hands like destiny made tangible. The metal grew warm against her palms. Had her mother felt this same mixture of terror and exhilaration? Had copper flooded her grandmother's mouth when the magnitude of inheritance truly struck?
The harbor stretched before her like an offered fortune, thick with masts that swayed in ancient conversation with wind and tide. Storm-battered walls had held for five centuries. Enemy bones built new reefs where fish now swam through forgotten ribs. The coral beneath her palms seemed to pulse with each remembered victory, as if the stone itself had drunk deep of conquest and grown drunk on the taste.
Tonight they would name her crown princess. Tomorrow her parents would sail westward with half their world—five hundred ships bearing Masan's children toward shores that might exist only in dream. And she would remain, holding what was left with hands that had never ruled alone. The weight pressed against her ribs now, heavier than armor, settling into places that felt hollow and aching with need she couldn't name.
The thought sang with anticipation that made her blood feel effervescent, bubbling like wine left too long in summer heat. Every lesson, every observation had led to this moment. Ready or not, tomorrow would come with the tide. The certainty tasted of salt and something darker, something that made her mouth water despite the evening meal still heavy in her stomach.
Wind gusted off the water, carrying festival bells from the piazza below where early celebrations had begun. The sound wrapped around her like silk, pulling her into memories more real than the present moment. Kira's laugh echoing through festival crowds. Mother's patient voice explaining tide signs only true sailors could read.
All of it hers now. Each responsibility had been added like another chain of mail until the full suit felt natural. Yet beneath the familiar weight, something new stirred—a hollowness that expanded with each breath, as if her body prepared space for burdens she couldn't imagine.
Footsteps whispered against stone behind her—too light for guards, too careful for servants rushing to complete preparations. She knew that tread like her own heartbeat, had been listening without realizing. The approach made the strange hunger in her chest settle slightly, as if another's presence could temporarily fill whatever void grew there.
Festival ribbons cracked like whips in a fresh gust, red and gold tongues lashing the air. Far below, harbor bells answered with deep bronze voices that resonated in her bones—or perhaps the resonance came from within, her body learning to sing in harmony with forces she didn't yet understand.
Tomorrow begins tonight. The city's pulse traveled up through coral foundations, through her palms pressed against the rail, into hollow spaces behind her heart where anticipation and certainty warred like opposing tides. Something was coming—she could taste it in the salt air, metallic and sweet as blood mixed with honey.
Salt spray kissed her face as another gust brought the sea's blessing inland, mixing with night-blooming cereus. She breathed deep, holding the surface steady before committing to whatever dive awaited. The air tasted of change, of endings disguised as beginnings, of transformation that would remake her into something necessary but terrible.
"I will not fail." The words shaped themselves with salt and certainty, a promise made to every terrace below. But even as she spoke them, she wondered what failure might look like—and whether success might prove a darker fate entirely. They deserved someone willing to become whatever Masan needed, no matter the cost.
And tomorrow, they would have her—changed, perhaps beyond recognition, but theirs nonetheless.