LITMIR.BIZ

      1

      PRETIA

      THE FLAME

      Pretia paused on the grand staircase of Castle Airim and looked over at the bowl of the Athletos Stadium, where the Epic Games opening ceremonies were held every four years. Earlier this summer the stadium had been filled with the best athletes from all over the land, from the Rhodan Islands to the distant Sandlands. But now it was empty. Towering Corinthian columns shaded her and threw long shadows from the colonnade down the steps while statues of her ancestors looked on from their pedestals. From where she stood she had a perfect view of the white marble seats that rose high into the air, the carved thrones for her parents, the black cinder track, and the winners’ podium. It was her favorite view in the entire world—the best view of the most impressive stadium in the land. Pretia’s dream wasn’t to sit in the royal thrones and look down on the games as her parents had done, but to be on the field as a competitor.

      The white marble looked even more brilliant than usual in the late-afternoon sun. The air was clean and dry, with a summer breeze that carried the salty ocean scent from the harbor up to the castle grounds.

      Today the stadium had not been used for its intended purpose—sports. Instead, it had been converted into the site of an elaborate feast for Pretia’s tenth birthday. The party had been lavish, dozens of courses of the finest foods from the farthest corners of Epoca—Cretian honeycakes, figs from Phoenis, Berberian pistachios and persimmons. There had been towers of blue grapes, pyramids of juicy oranges, trays of sizzling meats, and steaming baskets of breads. For the adults, there had been fountains of the best Megaran wine, and for the children, Spirit Water from the Delphic Springs that cascaded down into cups from a waterfall built for the occasion.

      There had been troupes of singers and dancers from the exotic outlands. There had been trained animals and acrobats. But one thing had been missing: fun.

      Because Pretia’s birthday was never just Pretia’s birthday. It was a state occasion of the highest importance. Pretia Praxis-Onera was Princess of Epoca, heir to the Crown of Dreams and the Throne of Fears. And Pretia wasn’t just any old princess. She was the first noble-born child to have parents from both royal houses in Epoca. Her father, King Airos, a Dreamer, was head of House Somni, and her mother, Queen Helena, a Realist, ruled House Relia.

      The king and queen’s marriage had been a scandal that had reached from the tip-top of Mount Oly in the East to the Rhodan Islands in the western sea and even to the distant outlands of Phoenis and Alkebulan. Marriage between the two houses was unheard of, especially among the highest ranks of Epocan nobility. But Airos and Helena ignored the gossip that said their union was improper and shameful. And when Pretia was born—many, many years later, after much worry and anxiety that the supposedly unnatural marriage would not produce an heir—the royal family named her the Child of Hope and declared that she was going to bring a new era of peace to Epoca.

      Thinking of this now, looking out at the remnants of the gala left on the field, Pretia rolled her eyes. Child of Hope, indeed. She didn’t care about any of that, especially not on her birthday. She just wanted a normal party, like a normal kid. But the truth was, she was rarely, if ever, treated as normal.

      Pretia’s birthday was the only time each year the royal houses Relia and Somni came together in their entirety. And not even the supposed Child of Hope could make it a relaxed occasion. Pretia’s whole extended family had been in attendance, all her royal aunts, uncles, and second cousins on both her mother’s and father’s sides. Hundreds of people she’d never met before, or if she had, she’d forgotten. Hundreds of people, Pretia had begun to understand, who resented her parents’ marriage: the union between the artistic, creative, and sometimes distracted Dreamers and the practical, determined, and often overly competitive Realists.

      That morning, as she’d stood in her room, forced into her fancy party dress, her mother had once more reminded her of exactly how important she was to the country. How everyone was expecting great things of her. How she was going to be the most important queen ever to rule Epoca. And of course this meant that at the party, she had to behave. She couldn’t twitch or scratch her nose or look bored or play with her food or laugh or whisper. Not that she had anyone to play, laugh, or whisper with. Which was why Pretia so vehemently disliked her birthday, year after boring year. It felt more like a state dinner than a celebration.

      She’d overheard from eavesdropping on the castle workers’ kids that at real birthday parties, there were games and songs and adventures instead of dull speeches and a formal procession of relatives paying their respects, kissing Pretia’s cheeks with their old-people lips or limply shaking her hand.

      Of course, there had been presents, so many presents, lavish tributes from the lands under her parents’ rule. There were silks from the Sandlands and sea crystals from the Rhodan Islands. There were dresses made by the blind weavers on top of Mount Oly and bracelets from the silver mines of Chaldis. But no one could give her what she actually wanted for her birthday—grana. And not just any grana, but the highest level of godly given talent that would allow her to be an Epic Athlete. Now her tenth birthday had come and gone and she still had no grana at all, not even an inkling.

      She ducked behind a column, closing her eyes and taking stock of her body—her toes, her legs, her stomach, her arms, wrists, fingers, neck, and head. All of it felt the same. All of it felt like it always did—normal, unchanged. And in this case, there was nothing good about being normal.

      For a year she’d been hearing the castle kids whisper about how their grana had come, which filled her with jealousy and anxiety. She’d listened to them discuss their heightened senses—their tingling fingers, their twitching noses, and new exciting ways of seeing and interacting with the world. But nothing had happened to Pretia. Was it because she was half Dreamer, half Realist that she didn’t have grana? Was her birth really as unholy as the dark gossip said? She was starting to worry. Was this the reason she hadn’t yet received her invitation to attend the prestigious Ecrof Academy the next year, something that nearly every heir to the throne of Epoca before her had done?

      Although Pretia had no idea what having grana felt like, she could easily identify it in others, especially the talented Epic Athletes she’d watched during the games in the stadium right outside the castle. It was what allowed the best basketball players to hang motionless in the air, as if the laws of gravity didn’t apply to them, as they dunked the ball. It was what made the best gymnasts easily execute twisting backflips on a four-inch beam as if they were standing on a floor exercise mat. It was how in football, running backs could detect a path through the defensive line and run through it as if they were on a wide-open field. Or how amazing tennis players carved impossible angles with the ball so that their shots clipped the smallest millimeter of the line time and time again.

      Pretia understood what grana was and she understood she didn’t have it. She took one last look at the stadium now from her perch on the stairs, trying to imagine what it felt like to sprint around it, run, jump, and race as if your body were propelled by some magical energy, and then headed into the castle.

      She passed through the towering Grand Atrium and up the stairs to the Hall of the Gods of Granity, the longest room in Castle Airim. Pretia guessed it was twice the length of a basketball court and half as narrow. She could kick a soccer ball just over halfway down the hall before it rolled and throw a tennis ball less than a quarter of the distance of the room. Not that she ever would. Gods forbid. At the far end of the hall, closest to the Atrium, the Granity Flame burned in a copper bowl, casting creepy shadows along the hall’s rounded ceiling.

      There

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