A knock on my door wakes me from a fitful sleep.

I sit up in bed, squinting at the harsh morning light streaming through my terrace windows. My gaze is drawn to the door by the soft rasp of an envelope being slid underneath it.

Sighing, I shove off my duvet and stretch my arms over my head as I make my way across the room. I recognize Simms’ boring blue stationary before I’ve read a single word of his message.

Your Royal Highness,

Your presence is requested this afternoon for an award ceremony, as your father is unable to attend.

You’ll be presenting a group of Vasgaardian firefighters with the National Medal of Valor for their bravery while battling the inferno in the East Wing last month.

There will be a short ceremony to thank them for their service in front of their fellow firefighters, close friends, and family members.

The limousine will be waiting downstairs to take you to the station at eleven forty-five sharp.

Gerald Simms

Palace Press Secretary

As always, he signed off with a flourish of ink beneath his name and position. I’m not sure why he bothers with such formality — I see the man practically every day, for god’s sake. But Simms isn’t the type to loosen up on protocol.

A glance at the clock reveals it’s already past ten. I’ve slept far later than usual — no doubt because I was up half the night tossing and turning. I shoot a pointed glare at the wall that divides my suite from Carter’s as I walk to my ensuite bathroom to start getting ready.

He wants to be enemies?

That’s fine with me.

Fine, fine, fine.

I couldn’t care less.

Standing in the shower, it’s easier to pretend the stinging of my eyes is due only to the scalding water falling in a torrent on my face.

“Thank you so much for your courage.”

I shake yet another firefighter’s hand, hoping my voice doesn’t sound shaky or insincere. The deputy chief nods at me, his face stoic.

“King Linus appreciates your heroism,” I murmur to the man beside him. “It will never be forgotten.”

Another handshake.

Another smile.

And so it goes, until I’ve greeted all twenty men who put their lives on the line last month when the East Wing went up in flames. If not for their swift response, Prince Henry might’ve lost his life along with King Leopold, Queen Abigail, and several members of the castle staff.

Not that he’s much better off now, lying in a coma in the hospital burn unit…

As I cross the stage toward the podium Simms trails closely on my heels, no doubt trying to curb any reckless ideas that pop into my head before they come to fruition. By this point, he should be accustomed to me going off script in some humiliating way or another — kicking off my high heels, sticking my tongue out at the paparazzi, giving away priceless Lancaster heirlooms to poor little girls from Hawthorne. You’d think he would’ve given up by now, but he still tries his best to keep me in check.

Good luck with that, Ger.

When I finally reach the podium, I turn to look out over the crowd. It’s a gorgeous fall day. The small square where they’ve set up the stage is full of several hundred civilians in hats, scarves, and thick wool coats. Alongside them, a slew of paramedics, firefighters, and policemen stand in their dress blues, supporting the heroes of the hour. There are a lot of children — I smile when I catch sight of them waving to their firefighter fathers up on stage.

“Good afternoon, everyone!” My voice rings out, clear with purpose.

Was it really only three weeks ago that I was terrified to speak to a crowd?

Polite applause fills the air. I hear the click of several dozen telephoto lenses — the press snapping photographs of me. The largest fire station in Vasgaard looms behind me, sure to make an impressive backdrop on tomorrow’s front page.

“It is my distinct privilege to be here with you today, in the presence of our best and bravest.”

Cheers ring out from the front row, where several of the firefighters’ wives are standing, beaming with pride at their husbands.

“I don’t know much about putting out flames. But I do know, it takes a special kind of courage to routinely rush into burning buildings, when anyone else in the world would be running out. To put your life on the line for the sake of saving another. To risk never seeing your own loved ones again, just to ensure someone else get’s to see theirs.”

The crowd is nodding along with my words. Several wives are dabbing tears.

I gesture at the line of uniformed men. “From what I hear, this particular company — the brave men of Station One — is especially close-knit. Whether it’s pot-luck dinners on Friday nights or summer barbecues at Chief Johnson’s lake house, taking on extra med-evac training sessions, or showing up at the local kindergarten to make fire drills a bit less scary for the six-year-olds… it’s clear the work you do here extends far beyond a mere job requirement.” My smile widens. More camera shutters click. “I couldn’t think of a more deserving group to receive the King’s recognition. And I’m so very honored to be the one who gets to present you all with the National Medal of Valor for your service to both crown and country.”

Cheers fill the air as I step out from behind the podium and approach the table to my right, where twenty small black boxes sit waiting. Simms hovers beside it, nodding gravely at me. I grin happily at him and he flinches, unaccustomed to such a show of familiarity.

If it were anyone else, I’d tell him to loosen up. But this is Simms. Twenty years from now, he’ll probably still be addressing me by my full royal title.

Twenty years from now.

Wow.

The thought is nearly enough to make me stumble off balance. I’m not exactly sure when I started seeing my role of princess as permanent; not certain at what point things shifted from a temporary state of affairs to simply…

My life.

This is my life, now.

I used to look into the future and see a clear-cut set of goals. Graduating with my psychology degree. Completing my internship. Opening my own practice. Finding a nice man to settle down with and someday, maybe, having a family of my own.

Now, when I look ahead, I see none of that. My future is one big, fat question mark with a crown on top. Still, at some point, the idea of being the princess stopped scaring the shit out of me and started to seem…

Not entirely suck-tastic.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m still not a huge fan of the constant paparazzi or the utter lack of privacy. I’d sell my left kidney if it meant I never had to attend another tea party with Ava, Octavia, and the other aristocratic gossips of polite society. But I’d be lying if I said I hate everything about my new life.

I’m stunned to find I actually enjoy going to events like this one every day — chatting with people from all over the country about their backgrounds, learning their stories, recognizing their accomplishments. It’s fascinating to share in so many human experiences, to see how the faces in the crowd light up when I stop to exchange a few kind words.

Never in a million years did I think I’d become someone who mattered. At least, not on a grand scale. I pursued psychology because I wanted to help people — one at a time, case by case. When I had to give up my internship, I thought that chapter of my life was closed for good.

Days like today, though… I’m beginning to think Crown Princess Emilia Lancaster might actually be able to make a difference. Perhaps not in the same way Dr. Emilia Lennox would have, but a difference nonetheless.

Maybe taking on this new role doesn’t have to mean losing the girl I used to be.

Maybe I can still help people.

Maybe I can still do good.

Filled with a new sense of purpose, I grab the first medal box off the table. The audience cheers as I cross back to the waiting firefighters, their chests puffed with pride as they prepare to receive their honors. When I place the medal around Chief Johnson’s neck, the explosion of applause is so deafening, it takes a moment for my ears to register the other sound suddenly filling the square, growing louder with each passing second.

The unmistakable revving of an engine.

What the hell?

Hands frozen in mid-air, my head swings around to locate the source of the noise. I scan the street bordering the far end of the square and feel the whole world slide into slow motion as a large box truck comes into view, careening around a corner at full speed.

My first thought is that someone must’ve lost control of the wheel. Surely, this is a terrible accident. But when the truck jolts up onto the sidewalk and barrels straight at the police barricade surrounding the gathered crowd, I feel the blood turn to ice inside my veins.

This is no accident.

“Look out!” I cry, but the sound goes nowhere without the microphone to amplify it. My useless warning reaches only those on the stage, who are standing beside me in the same shellshocked horror, eyes locked on the incoming disaster.

There’s a thunderous boom as the truck smashes into the metal crowd partitions. They fly into the air like they’re made of aluminum foil, doing nothing to slow the vehicle. Several policemen run toward it, guns drawn, shouting for the driver to stop. I hear the whiz of bullets from the snipers on the roof — ricocheting off the grill, fracturing the windshield into a spiderweb.

Still, the truck keeps coming.

Too fast to stop.

Too late to run.

Straight into the square.

Straight toward the crowd.

The firefighters are leaping off the platform now, running headlong into danger in a desperate attempt to protect their families. People are finally catching on and panic is setting in. I watch them searching for an exit in the barricaded square, but there’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. The very partitions meant to keep us safe have sealed our fate. We are animals in a cage, penned in before the slaughter.

Wake up, Emilia.

Wake up, wake up, wake up.

This must be another nightmare.

Someone is tugging at my arm, trying to pull me off the stage, but I shrug them away. I’m rooted to the spot. I cannot move, cannot breathe, cannot help the people below. I can only watch, helpless to stop it, as the truck plows onward into the crowd. As it carves a path of carnage through the gathering of men, women, and children who, mere seconds ago, were cheering in celebration. Now, they are screaming in pain and terror.

This cannot be real.

This cannot be happening.

Any moment now, I will wake and find myself safe and sound in my bed, and this will all just be a bad dream.

I blink my eyes, but I do not wake.

The screams crescendo. People are climbing over barriers, ducking beneath the platform. I spring into motion, bending to pull people up onto the stage with me — one after another, as many as I can manage.

It’s not enough.

Not by far.

It’s pandemonium on the ground. The truck has slowed, but it’s weaving now — as though to claim as many lives as possible. Thankfully, the firefighters have finally broken through one of the barricades. People are funneling out into the street, out of the truck’s path. Tears stream down their faces as they sprint for safety, their children clutched tight to their chests. I try not to look at the ones who do not run. The ones lying still on the ground. Left behind in the wake of tires and terror.

Dead.

They’re dead.

Arm muscles screaming from the effort, I begin to pull another woman up on stage with me. With a numb sort of fascination, I note that there’s blood spattered all across her jacket. I wonder who it belongs to. Whether they’re still breathing. If they were one of the lucky ones.

“Thank you,” the woman gasps as I heave her up.

I glance at the crowd, where a line of others are screaming for aid, and see her hesitate a beat. Guilt flashing in her eyes, she mutters an apology before bolting for safety. I don’t watch her go — I’m already turning back, reaching out for the next set of hands.

My eyes lock with a man in the crowd, an infant clutched in his arms in a pale pink blanket. It looks so absurdly out of place here. Like finding a child’s toy in a war zone. He lifts her small, swaddled body in to the air, as if to pass her to me, but before I can take her, I’m jerked backward with brute force. A shriek flies from my mouth as my whole body goes airborne. The world spins upside down as I’m thrown over someone’s shoulder like a sack of flour.

The dark suit is a dead giveaway — it’s one of the King’s Guard, rushing me to safety.

“Let me go!” I yell, pounding his back with my fists. “There are more people back there! We have to help them!”

He ignores me, running full tilt toward the back of the stage, where a narrow set of stairs leads down to ground-level.

“We can still save them!”

My ragged screams go unanswered.

I can still hear the crowd crying out as we race toward the waiting SUV. I twist my neck, trying to catch one last glimpse of the stage, praying I’ll see the man with that pink bundle in his arms following us to safety.

Instead, my eyes land on the truck — parked in the middle of the throng, a dozen bullet holes in its windshield.

It’s finally over, I think vacantly. They’ve stopped it.

A second later, the truck explodes.

I don’t even have time to brace for impact, to cry out, to warn those around me as the mammoth fireball erupts, incinerating everything within its immediate radius in the span of a single heartbeat. A whoosh of heat and sound ripples outward, blasting the guards clear off their feet — and me with them.

My body sails into the air, a puppet without strings. In the instant before impact, it’s the strangest thing — the only thing I feel is relief.

Maybe this is for the best.

Because I’d never survive the grief of today.

I’d never be able to live with the things I’ve seen.

My head slams against something hard, and then, blessedly, the world fades into darkness.