its way around the room.
“Have a great weekend, team,” Coach Fenton says. “You deserve it. See you at practice on Monday.”
Grabbing my gym bag on the way out, I join in the whooping as the revelry spills into the hallway. Even with the near-miss, you couldn’t wipe the smiles off everyone’s faces—making it to the semifinals is a huge deal for a prep school that hasn’t been in the Spring Hockey Tournament playoffs for more than a decade. I’d been recruited into the game during my second day as a freshman at Dover Prep. As much as I hate to admit it, I have Cara to thank for that. Back when we used to be friends, we’d been joined at the hip and she’d insisted that we try out together. We’d both made the JV team—she as striker, and me as right forward. To me, it’d been a way to pass the time.
The plain truth is I can’t participate in any competitive water sports, even though swimming is more my thing than hockey. My guardians warned me about that, and at the time I’d yet to figure out what else I might enjoy. Field hockey fit the bill as well as any other sport, and two and a half years later, I’d become quite good.
More than good, a sneaky inner voice whispers. Starting striker on the varsity team as a junior is pretty much unheard of.
I acknowledge it with a smug grin. My natural athleticism isn’t a curse—it’s a gift. As long as I’m careful and don’t draw undue attention to myself, it’s a bonus. And it isn’t like swimming where I can clock a fifty-foot pool in less than ten seconds, almost half the time of the Olympic world record for freestyle, or hold my breath indefinitely. A smile curls my lip upward—technically I’m not holding my breath, but nobody really knows that.
“Riss,” a male voice says from behind me as I reach the parking lot. An odd magnetic feeling, as if someone has placed a wet cloak over my skin and is tugging on it at the same time, stops me in my tracks. I turn toward the pull automatically, my body registering its owner a half second before my brain does. Sure enough, the owner of the voice—and the sensation—is a tall skinny boy with a shock of blond spiky hair and moss green eyes, holding a skateboard under one arm.
The smile on my face slows and stops altogether as I spot the familiar critical look in his eyes. I sigh. Speio and I used to be so close, but lately, everything I do seems to piss him off—field hockey, my friends, school, all of it. I can’t do anything right, and it’s getting to the point that he’s becoming the nagging older brother everyone assumes he is. I know he means well. After all, his parents are tasked with keeping me safe, but it’s not like that’s his job.
“We need to talk,” he says, and grabs my arm to pull me to a bench across the street. He’s barely six months older than I am, but he’s strong and his fingers dig painfully into my upper arms.
“Ouch,” I mutter, pulling away and rubbing my already reddening skin. “What the hell, Speio?”
“What do you think you’re doing?” he says in a low voice.
“What? You mean the game?” I can hear the defensive tone in my own voice as he nods. If Speio called the shots, I would be the kid who sits in the back row at school and never answers any questions or sits in the library all day...under a protective tarp in flame-resistant gear. “You followed me to the game at Bishop’s?”
“I have to keep an eye on you,” he says. “And I saw you. I saw what you did at the end with the three defenders.”
“What did I do, Speio? Move a shade faster than normal?” I say as a wave of irritation replaces my earlier defensiveness. “Besides, what does it matter? Your parents are Handlers here. Not you. You don’t have to watch me every ten seconds!”
Speio flinches as if I’ve struck him, but then brushes it off. “I just don’t get it. Why do you try so hard to be like them?”
The soft comment strikes an unexpected nerve. “You know why, Speio,” I snap more harshly than I intend. “I have to fit in.”
My words are sharp but true. I’ve spent almost my whole life studying the other side, trying to understand humans and learn everything I could about them. And now, living here as a human, I’ve had to put theory into practice. As a student, I’ve absorbed everything academic they’ve thrown at me. As an athlete, I’ve enjoyed all the games, using my legs to run and my arms to swing a stick—things I’d never before experienced. Here, I’ve felt free for the first time in my life. Unfettered with who I am.
Now, a year after my father’s cryptic message, it seems that I’m only delaying the inevitable—facing what is left of my legacy. The truth is, I don’t want to think about any of it. So I’ll pretend that what I’m doing is still the same, until someone tells me it’s time to go back. And if that day never comes, maybe I’m fine with that, too. I’d rather be here, pretending to be young and carefree, instead of there, where everyone will look to me for the answers I don’t have.
My family’s legacy and my royal duty.
Speio stares at me. “But that’s just it. You don’t have to, because we don’t belong here. We’ve been here three years already, and you don’t even talk about going back. Waterfell’s your home. You have everything there, can’t you see that?”
Not anymore. I shake my head firmly. I may have been born in Waterfell, but my father was clear that I should never return—someone else was the ruler of our undersea home now. I grit my teeth, raising cold eyes to Speio. “I’m here to learn—this is part of my initiation cycle. You know that. And until I come of age to rule, we stay.”
“And then what?” Speio presses. “We go back? You won’t even talk about going back, and that’s what scares me. Because you don’t want to go back, do you?” His eyes widen at my expression. “That’s the truth, isn’t it? I can see it written all over your face when you’re with the humans. But you’re not them. Don’t you get that?”
My blood rushes in a slow surge at his rising tone. “Careful, Speio,” I tell him.
“Why?” he shoots back. “For being honest? You’re so selfish, Nerissa.”
“I’m selfish?” I repeat carefully, unable to keep the anger from seeping into my voice. Speio is only here because his parents, Echlios and Soren—both Handlers—are sworn to safeguard me. There’s nothing he can say that will make them break their blood oaths. It’s a fact, but still, something in his last words sneaks under my skin, unsettling me. Maybe because there’s truth in what he says or maybe I’m still rattled from Jenna’s accusations on the field. “Why am I selfish?”
“Because this is all about you,” he says. “You don’t care about anyone but yourself.”
I glare at him, a thousand fiery emotions running through my brain. “It is about me. And yes, I’m the one who’s decided to stay here. But you’re free to go back if that’s what you want. Go, and be one with the home none of us have anymore.” Speio’s eyes widen, but I don’t stop. My words slow and become more enunciated, exhibiting the fact that English is not my native tongue. I hate the way the words taste in my mouth, so clipped and guttural. I also hate the way the commands come so quickly to me as if being a ruler is an inborn trait.
Because it is.
No matter what I look like, I can never escape who I am.
So I become the monarch. I become the royal with the clipped tones and the icy, immovable face. “You weren’t told because I didn’t want you to know. We don’t
