Long live the king.

Killua had never seen the grand hall so full of people. Though he had been raised with a clear public presence—straight spine, long strides, a sharp gaze which never lingered on anyone, a smile just sincere enough to appease the masses—he never felt comfortable standing before a crowd. His father, the valiant former monarch of their kingdom, had instilled in him the value of distance, sternly and without mercy.

The people do not need to know us, Killua, King Silva had said, long ago. Killua sat on the floor of the dining room, his cheek still stinging from the force of his father's slap. They must fear and respect us. We expose only the shallowest parts of ourselves. This is the way of the Zoldyck family, and you must never question it again.

As Killua sat on the throne, he could feel the coldness of his eyes as he stared at the tapestry hung above the main entrance. The fabric's many colors blurred, and he gripped the armrests with his fingernails to ground himself. His headaches had gotten worse ever since his father announced his chosen heir, and there was little the herbalists could do to ease the symptoms.

To his left, his father's eyes slid to Killua for a moment, long enough to convey a simple command.

Never show weakness to anyone.

Killua straightened and forced his body to relax. His grandfather stepped forward to conclude the coronation. The words echoed from the arching rafters, ricocheted off the stained glass. As he ignored the formalities, Killua became increasingly aware of the weight of the crown on his head. He'd practiced moving about with it before, paced around his chambers for hours, but that day, it felt heavier, as if his father had laced it with expectations and the threat of repercussion.

Sudden applause brought Killua back to the hall. The aristocrats, soldiers, and other townspeople had risen in celebration. Killua rose on cue, nodded in gratitude, then passed by his father, disappearing through the heavy purple curtains.

Waiting there with a goblet of cool water was Gon, a common stable boy who'd recently been promoted to Killua's personal servant. The brightness of the young man's grin coaxed a genuine smile from the new king.

"Congratulations, Killua," Gon said, handing the goblet over. "A king at eighteen. That's incredible."

"It is tradition," Silva said, pushing through the curtains with his forearm. "Nothing more." The sternness in his voice bent Gon's body, straightened his spine and shoulders. Gon averted his eyes in subordination. Turning to Killua, Silva lifted the crown from his head, tearing away a few strands of tangled hair with it. "We will speak more at dinner. In private."

Killua bowed his head. "Yes, father."

Silva stood still for a moment, watching his son and noting the slight quiver of his lip, the tension in his jaw and fists. Without another word, Silva left, two soldiers flanking him as he began discussing political matters in a hushed tone.

Gon was the first to look up, and once he was certain Silva and his supporters were out of earshot, he lay his palm against Killua's shoulder and sighed in relief. When Killua tensed at the touch, Gon smoothed his fingers over the soft fabric of his tunic and smiled, drawing Killua's eyes upward.

"Your dad's pretty scary," Gon said matter-of-factly. "Sometimes I forget you're related, you're so different."

Furrowing his brows, Killua swallowed and turned away from Gon, shrugging off his hand. "I know," he said. "I'm nothing like him, and I never will be."

As he realized the miscommunication, Gon laughed nervously and stepped closer. "That's not what I meant. Killua—"

"I have to go." Killua's words were mechanical. When he lifted his head completely, his eyes seemed glassy, and Gon took a step back, searching for something in his face.

"Killua, wherever you're going, I'll come with—"

"I'm training with Illumi, and I… I can't be late."

With that, Killua fled, his feet moving automatically, carrying him to the training grounds. He dropped the goblet in his haste, and the remaining liquid spilled onto the stone. He would apologize to Gon later, he decided, after he'd released some of the tension which had built up. It wasn't fair to Gon, but Killua couldn't help it.

He'd just been crowned as the rightful heir, the king, and yet he was still as powerless as he had always been. Subpar, weak, and cowardly. He would never please his father. With clenched fists, Killua quickened his pace, trying to suffocate the tightening sensation in his chest and praying that physical exertion would relieve him.

Gon watched him leave, one hand still outstretched to stop him but his feet planted firmly in their places. He let his arm fall to his side and busied himself with cleaning up the mess on the ground.