It's like an orb of fiery destruction. The sun seems different today, as it rises, a pale yellow against the sodden sky. It's as if something has sucked away its light, its usual glow of molten. And it quivers against the drained blue, like it might erupt. It is a star, after all, and all stars have an end. They all explode one day.

Its rays feel cold against my face, beaming through the open window of my bedroom. I half-expect Azael to appear, to climb through it soundlessly, like the secretive shadow he is. Still, no sign of him. And still, no feeling of death in my bones. But I feel something else. An edge. A strain on the heart string that binds us together. Like a knife is about to cut it.

I cannot lose him, I think, desperately, quietly in the back of my mind, stifled by the significance of today. But what if I already have, what if I already have?

Knock, knock.

I turn on the heels of my boots, hands clasped behind me. "Come in," I instruct, facing the door now.

It creaks open, two man servants appearing before me.

"We've brought your clothes, sire, for your coronation," one of them says, the shorter, stubble-faced one. "Would you like some assistance in -"

"No," I say, too quickly. "No, thank you. I shall be fine on my own. You may set it down on the bed and leave." Anything and everything I say sounds harsh, cold.

That is all I feel. Despite this day - this prior eagerness to be king - trampled by this feeling throbbing inside me. Missing. Azael is my missing rib and the rest of them crumble inside me. My brother, missing. Gone. Yet still here. Somewhere.

The door clicks shut. I didn't even notice them taking leave, or what they must've said.

I stare at the ceremonial robes sitting upon my bedding, deep red embroidered with intricate lines of gold, swirling into simple yet potent patterns. My ribs throb - what's left of them.

I shrug into the robe, layering over my formal clothes. It feels like a drape of iron sitting on my body, pulling it down. My body moves itself over to the window, resting my hands on the edge. The village is alive with celebration, bells tolling, banners decorating the streets and rippling in the wind, and a herd of both nobles and commoners cross the streets towards the palace.

I don't know how to feel. Whatever I do wells in my throat, like a hot piece of coal. I swallow it anyway.

My feet take me down stairs, out the room. My mind is emptier than these long halls. Apart from the pairs of guards patrolling every corner, almost every room. They nod in acknowledgement when I walk past, muttering your highness, sire, soon-to-be-king.

Soon. Today. My entire life has been waiting up to this moment.

I descend the stairs, briskly, because I want it to be over with. I half-hoped, or expected, my father to come up to my room, and give me some fatherly consolation. Yet, he never came. He's busy, I assure myself, dealing with kingly duties, lightening the load before he hands it over to you.

And, perhaps, he must deal with the aftermath of my foolish anger last night. It was taken care of, is what he said. Or it would be - by morning. Nothing left for me to worry about.

I find myself in the back room of the ball room, where Sir Gavian Evenheart, a knight, and Lord Aldric Varrow, a close friend of my father - and the clergy, High Priest Corwin, await me. They all smile and nod, the exhilaration swelling on their faces.

"It's been a pleasure watching you rise to the throne, young prince," Sir Gavian remarks, clamping my shoulder with his calloused hand. "Your mother would be proud, and I know your father is."

For some reason, I doubt it. I don't know.

"Thank you." I nod, placing my hand over his. And we let go.

I stare at the ballroom doors, remaining closed, but I can hear the hum of the crowd behind them. All of the anticipation. I stand away from them, even though they are behind me. Perhaps I should exchange more meaningful words, or anything, but I cannot speak. I do not want to. No words rise to my lips. Only the beat of my heart rises, and the affirming coolness of my blood.

The crown awaits me in that room ahead - my fate, and the fate of the entire kingdom placed in the very palms of my hands. A destiny I was born for, yet feels like a doom to my bones.

I turn my head behind me slightly, to see Lord Aldric studying me, his sharp features returning from his initial smile, moulding back into an incomprehensible expression. He leans slightly towards Sir Gavian, muttering something.

I don't think either of them realise I'm watching, subtly.

I do not hear what he says - I only catch Gavian's jaw tighten, muscle rippling beneath his dark stubble.

Aldric's voice rises just enough for me to catch the last words.

"He is still a boy," he whispers, harshly, into Gavian's broad shoulder.

Sir Gavian bristles, his fingers curling into fists before he forces them to remain unclenched at his sides. "He is a king," he corrects, lowly, in my defence.

Aldric merely scoffs in response.

I turn back to face the door, my blood torn between boiling and freezing. I know what he thinks - Aldric - that I am untested. That my father's strength doesn't run through my blood.

"How are we feeling, your highness?" A familiar voice booms.

I swirl, only to see the shaven head of Centiel, the general, whom I've known since forever. My family has, especially my father. Yet as I grew older, he grew more distant. With respect perhaps, to my growth in knowledge and self-sufficiency.

The sharp points of his cheekbones and the brutal cut of his jaw curves into a white-toothed grin. "You do not look as elated as you should be," he remarks, wrapping his cloaked arm around my shoulders.

I allow a small smile, pretending not to feel the prickle of both spite and correction from Aldric before. "I am only trying to act kingly and composed," I tell him, which is true. I cannot let all my feelings get the best of me, not now.

The faint scars across his face crease as he smiles wider and squeezes the cap of my shoulder. "You will be fine, your highness," he assures me, dropping his arm. "It is in your blood, the ability to rule. It will come seamlessly, even if it doesn't feel like it at first."

"I can only hope," I reply, gulping back the distaste in my mouth. The coat of resentment on my tongue, bitter and thick.

He nods at me, his gold studs catching in the chandelier light above, the gleam of colour on the trailing tattoos covering his chest, starting from his neck. They disappear beneath the v-line of his black-gold robes.

Centiel takes his place with the others, behind me, all standing upright and chins high, ready to enter.

An announcer's voice, my father's advisor - echoes through the ball room and through the doors in front of us.

And they pull open.

I am faced with a crowd of people, a kingdom of souls I am about to inherit. All staring at me. A mix of broad grins, frowns, easy eyes, unreadable lips.

I take my first step forward. I pray I do not fall.