The sun was setting and the king was dying.

Isiah Osadere clung fraily to his blankets, cloudy eyes fixed on the horizon outside his window. Forty-five years of reign had aged him greatly, although everyone knew that the eighty-year old was dying of more than just age.

The sun was dipping below the horizon, and he knew better than to deceive himself. He would be dead by nightfall. Midnight, at the latest.

If only he could be alone, but no, he was accompanied by his top advisor, who was scrambling to take care of last-minute preparations. The King's sickness spreading so quickly had not been anticipated.

"Sir," Chambers spoke quickly. "The matter of your savings and the estate—"

"—written in my will, Chambers."

"With all due respect, sir, your choice is, uh, to say the least. . . strange."

"But it is my choice, Chambers. And I am not dead yet. Do not lecture me."

"Sorry, sir, but Miss Chen has been out of the public eye for decades, would it not be better to dedicate it to a charity cause or a new building?"

"I have covered enough charity causes in my life, Chambers. This one is personal. And what the hell am I going to build, a bust of my saggy face?"

"I suppose not, sir."

"Hmm. I will miss you, Chambers. You are a good man."

Chambers seemed to chew on that for a second before replying.

The tears were evident in his voice.

"I will miss you too, sir."

"Keep control of the rest of the board, will you? I do not need to be disturbed in the afterlife by my successor."

"Will do, sir."

Isiah afforded him a small smile and was about to turn back to the window when the door swung open to admit Fiske Cahill.

Fiske had seen better days, judging by his patchy hair and sunken eyes. "Isiah."

"Fiske."

Chambers glanced between the two, and gathered up his papers. "I will leave you two alone." He was halfway across the door before turning back briefly. "It was an honor to serve you, sir."

"And I with you, Chambers."

The door was shut hastily as he exited, and Fiske turned immediately to Isiah. Isiah spread his arms the best he could, the most the disease would let him. "Impressed?"

Under any other circumstances, Fiske would have cracked a smile. Here, there was no trace of the boy Isiah grew up with. "Isiah, you are dying."

"No, of course not," Isiah replied dryly. "Just experiencing some side effects of being an old bastard."

Fiske sighed and pulled up one of the chairs from the worktable, sitting down next to Isiah. "Isiah, we have to talk. About your successor."

Isiah very delicately folded his hands over his stomach. "You know who I nominated."

"Yes, but she is not ready."

"I disagree."

"Isiah, she is twenty-four. You were crowned at thirty-five, and even that was too early for you."

"But she's ready," Isiah replied stubbornly. "There has never been anyone else whom I trust more."

"Isiah, please." Fiske's tone was pleading. "Consider other people. Any one of your protégés will suffice—"

"—you've got quite the sick humor, Fiske, I am on my goddamn deathbed and you are trying to get me to change my mind?" He narrowed his eyes. "And what is this newfound love for Miss Starling? Did you not call her a traitor in our last meeting?"

"Perhaps by ordinary Cahill standards, but this is much more that that!" Fiske rubbed his palm against his head in exasperation. "We are talking about a battle for a crown, something that is enshrined in lies and betrayal. There is always something dangerous about Cahills working together—"

"—Madeleine and Olivia wanted it—"

"—they wanted union, not a monarchy. And even then a union of Cahills is more dangerous than individual branches. Wolves and dragons and snakes and bears, tearing each other apart under a façade of champagne glasses and ballgowns."

"She was born into it. She is destined for this."

"She does not have to be. Isiah, please, she has had enough. And they will not accept her."

"I see no reason why they will not."

"The Ohs have owned the Ekat title for a hundred years. The Starlings last held it in 1760. The Ekats will not take too kindly to that change."

Isiah waved dismissively. "Bae and Alistair are dead, and Patricia is far too desperate to gain any public support." Isiah felt a pang in his heart as he thought about Alistair. He would have been ready.

"And what about the other branches? Surely there is someone who can—"

"—I have gone through all of them. Tomases are still stuck on Liza Portmane, and the Lucians would have had a good chance if Natalia was still an option. And Janus. . . Janus is too far gone, and it's a shame."

Fiske let out a small smirk. "No branch loyalty, I see."

"With their candidate?" Isiah snorted. "I would rather go undercover in the Tower of London than accept Cora Wizard. She is not even a good artist. I doubt she is even a Janus."

"She is not ready, Isiah." Fiske said softly. He leaned closer. "Something dark is wandering among us. The same thing that is killing you. They are waiting for your death, and then they will prey on your successor."

"That is exactly why I chose her, Fiske!" Isiah up, eyes clear once more. "She is strong. Stronger than the rest, and twice as smart. She is weathered from pain, and she knows how to be resourceful."

"She is beaten from everything she's experienced, Isiah. The clue hunt, her brothers, the Vespers—which, by the way will probably prompt a rebellion—"

"—it will not. She has supporters in Aurelia, many more than you realize. She will be well loved." Isiah slumped down into the sheets, tired from all the arguing. "Fiske, admit it. Sinead is better than any of the other candidates proposed."

"It is not her credentials I am worried about. It is the aftermath that frightens me."

Isiah smiled wryly. "It is not often I hear you admitting you are scared."

"She was a Vesper, Isiah. I know the concept does not mean much to you, but for many of the branch leaders, it does. Phoenix Wizard and Natalie Kabra are dead partly because of her."

"You said it yourself, old friend. The term Vesper does not mean much to me. Do you know how many Vespers were—and most likely still are—in Aurelia? I have been rubbing elbows with the worst of the worst for decades."

"That is beside my point. You do not honestly think the Holts, the Kabras, the Wizards. . . and my own grand-niece and grand-nephew will not find out about the monarchy if Sinead becomes queen?"

"That is their right to know, Fiske. You cannot prevent them from finding out." Isiah paused. "You tried to hide the Vespers from them, and those insidious bastards found more ways to hurt them. The more you try to help, to hide, the more things become apparent. Be transparent with them."

To his surpise, Fiske managed a weathered smile. "All this," he said quietly. "From two men who never had children of their own."

Isiah was quiet. "Will—will you look after her for me, old friend?"

Fiske knew who he was talking about. "Of course. It is the least I can do."

Isiah closed his eyes, and for a moment, they were just two old men who had lived too long, seen too much.

King Isiah Osadere died peacefully in his sleep, his advisors around him, eyes lifted to witness the sunrise.

Fiske stared at the yellow glow, a cold sense of dread replacing his sorrow.

The race for the crown had begun.