LITMIR.BIZ

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been tempted to pity him, the next in line to the throne after her, always forced to observe from the sidelines on the very small chance that he would rule Epoca one day. But Castor was extremely obnoxious, often whispering behind her back to anyone who would listen that she was no better than a Star Stealer because of her mixed heritage—that she didn’t have two house affiliations, but none. He’d gotten even worse as they grew older. Like everyone else in the royal inner circle, Castor knew, or thought he knew, that Pretia hadn’t received her grana.

      The only light on the top floor came in from a single round hole at the peak of the dome called the Gods’ Eye. Right now, with the sun nearly at the top of its climb, a massive shaft of sunlight beamed directly into the center of the room, lighting up the entire perimeter of the wall on which was painted a 360-degree mural showing the fall of Hurell and the departure of the remaining gods from the island of Cora to Mount Aoin.

      The Gods’ Eye was designed so that as the sun moved across the sky, Hurell would be cast into darkness, while the remaining gods, who were shown on their final day on earth before they retired to Mount Aoin, remained illuminated until nightfall.

      The seven remaining gods had been painted on the eastern wall. They stood in a line that stretched from the shore of Cora to a towering gate, beyond which a boat was waiting to take them to the holy mountain in a secret corner of the realm. The first six gods were looking at the narrow boat that had been pulled up onto the beach, with its two elegant white sails trimmed in gold. But the goddess Cora, after whom the island was named, was looking back over her shoulder at a cave carved into the towering cliffs that rose from the beach toward a green plateau that touched the sky. Pretia knew that just before the sun left the room in darkness, it would alight on Cora’s eyes for a final quarter of an hour, illuminating her longing backward glance.

      Every time Pretia stood under the Gods’ Eye, she wondered what Cora was looking at—what she was brokenhearted to be abandoning. She’d even climbed up a ladder an artisan had left behind when cleaning the mural to get a better look inside the cave. But she couldn’t figure it out. Besides the rocky coastline and asphodel bushes, all she could see was a single tree root that burst through the roof of the cave.

      Pretia felt her father’s hand on the small of her back urging her toward the Speaker of Grace. Pretia stumbled as she approached—tripping over her untied shoelace.

      She stood before the Speaker of Grace, the same man who had blessed her entry into the world, who had said her birthday devotion each year, who had made her suffer through weekly classes in the history of the gods. He was the oldest person Pretia had ever seen, with watery blue eyes and pale skin that sagged from his cheekbones. It had been decided at birth that Pretia’s religious education would come from her mother’s family and her academic learning from her father’s, something that clearly did not sit well with the three high Dreamer Granics looking on under the Gods’ Eye.

      Because this was going to be a Realist-dominated ceremony, Pretia knew it would be short and straightforward, a transmission of information without a lot of poetic language. That was a relief, at least. There would be facts instead of mystic statements she’d have to try and interpret later, which was what happened when Dreamers took charge.

      “Come with grace, my child,” the Speaker of Grace said, putting two shaking hands on Pretia’s shoulders. He wore an enormous blue ring that, over the years, had grown too large for his brittle finger and swung loosely as he talked.

      The room was so silent, Pretia could hear each Granic breathing in and out.

      “Today you enter into a new phase in your life,” the Speaker of Grace said. “Today you no longer rely only on adults to guide you, but also on yourself. For today is the day that you receive your Grana Book.”

      Pretia stole a quick glance around to see exactly where her Grana Book might be. She’d only ever seen the Grana Books belonging to her parents. Her mother’s was a thick volume, the size of a small painting, whose cover was embroidered with blue and gold. Her father’s book was as wide as her hand and looked incredibly heavy. The binding was made out of bronze that had tarnished to a browned green color at the corners.

      “As you know, every child in Epoca receives one of these books after his or her tenth birthday. They are the story of your life in pictures. They are your destiny, your soul, your spirit, and your inspiration. But they do not tell the future. They do not provide clear answers. Your life’s work will be to learn how to interpret yours.”

      “How—” Pretia started to ask before her mother gave a polite cough, letting her know to keep quiet.

      “Some people never bother to learn to use their books,” the Speaker of Grace said. “Some people devote their entire lives to understanding them. Some people understand immediately what is depicted on the pages, and some force understandings that aren’t there. How you use your book will be up to you. Your grana will guide you.”

      Pretia saw her parents exchange a brief look.

      “Your book is a special one, I’m sure you understand,” the Speaker of Grace continued, blinking his watery eyes. “It is the first book ever made for a Dreamer and a Realist child. And that means there is no one to help you interpret it—no Granics to guide your way forward. This is a path you are going to have to tread alone, Pretia. Your book has no rules and no guidelines. Everyone’s book is unique to them. But yours is something that has never been seen before.”

      Butterflies rose in Pretia’s stomach. Why did everything have to be different for her? Why did her book have to be unlike anyone else’s?

      Now King Airos stepped forward, cleared his throat, and addressed Pretia in the regal tone reserved for state occasions. “Until the gods gifted grana to the land of Epoca, we were a country at war with itself. On this day—the day you are to receive your book—I remind you of this story. During the dark ages, the god Hurell turned the houses against each other, forging war and stirring up retribution and hatred between House Somni and House Relia, the Dreamers and the Realists. For hundreds of years Epoca was thrown into darkness, until the houses came together and turned to the remaining Gods of Granity, begging for peace. And this peace was granted in the form of grana.”

      Pretia tried to stifle a yawn and stay focused. How many times had she heard this before? She’d lost count. Too many—she was sure of that. Her eyes wandered to the mural, landing, as usual, on the goddess Cora. What was she looking at? And, for a moment, it seemed to Pretia that Cora’s backward glance was not longing, but fear. Then she caught herself. That was silly—gods had nothing to fear, especially not on earth.

      Pretia was snapped back to attention by her father’s voice. “Grana is a breath of inspiration from the gods. It’s in all of us. It’s what allows each of us to be the best at what we do. It’s what allows us to be rulers, athletes, artists, writers, doctors, or whatever it is we want to be. And we use our Grana Books to guide us. Because at the end of the day, Pretia, only we can answer our own questions and set our own destinies.” Pretia strained onto her tiptoes, ready to kiss her father, but to her dismay, he hadn’t finished speaking. “When I learned to interpret my book as a young man, I saw the most extraordinary thing. I was to raise a child who was both Dreamer and Realist—a child of hope. That is who you are, Pretia. I can only imagine what wonders your book has in store for you.”

      Now the queen stepped forward. She was holding a small package wrapped in blue cloth, which she presented to Pretia. “On this day, grace is yours,” she said.

      Pretia could feel everyone’s eyes on her as she took the package from her mother. It didn’t feel special, just like an ordinary book. Still, she didn’t want to open the blue cloth. Her cursed grana might betray her. She worried that her book would start talking or burst into flames or leap from her hands.

      The Granics from both houses approached her. The ones from House Relia came first and offered the Realist Prayer, ending with “Guided by fear, led by thought, steered by confidence, may you never go astray.”

      Then came the three Dreamer Granics from House Somni, whose prayer ended with the words: “May your inspiration fly freely, toward

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