I’m being unfair to him. And I’m being petty.

“I don’t despise you,” I sigh out. “I despise the man that came before you.” I have to force my next words out. “It’s not your fault, but every time I see you, I relive those final moments with my father.” And out of all the memories I have of him, that’s the one I want to dwell on the least.

One of those people wearing the fancy headsets cuts into our little heart-to-heart. “Serenity, you’re on in thirty,” he says, waving me forward and saving me from continuing the conversation.

I’m led to a door at the end of the hallway, where he explains down to every minute detail how my entrance and exit should be executed. Then he leaves and I wait once more.

A countdown begins, and my pulse speeds up. These final seconds seem the longest as my adrenaline mounts.

And then the door I stand in front of is thrown open. As I move away from the wings, towards the stage, Giza unfolds before my eyes. I almost stagger back from the number of people gathered. A sea of them stand in the field in front of me, and many more fill the rows upon rows of stadium seats that wrap around it.

And as soon as they see me, they go crazy.

The soldier in me tenses. I almost reach for my gun before logic overrides the reaction.

The king still stands at the podium, and now he turns away from the audience, his deep eyes trained on me.

I walk up to him, and his hand falls to the small of my back. He resumes talking to the crowd, but I’m not listening. The audience has me mesmerized.

This can’t be my life.

I’ve somehow gone from a dying soldier living out her limited days in a bunker to a mythic queen.

It feels like such a farce. Like I’m a farce.

I feel the king’s eyes on me. He laces his fingers through mine and brushes a kiss against my fingers. When he straightens, he gives me a slight nod then leaves the stage.

Now it’s my turn.

I take a deep breath as my gaze travels over the countless faces.

“The last time my eyes took in the world, it was at war,” I began. “That was over a century ago.”

If the crowd was silent before, now it goes dead.

“I slept for a hundred years and woke only to find the world is still at war. That should not be the way of things.”

I take a deep breath, feeling the cameras on me. I’m going to have to be vulnerable, something I’m bad at in the best of situations. And this is far from the best of situations.

“One hundred and twenty-four years ago, I was born in the Western United Nations …”

I don’t know how many minutes pass by the time I bring people up to the present. I’m not even sure what I’ve told them matters. I wanted them to understand me, to know that for all our differences we are very much the same, but my life story isn’t terribly relatable. It’s mostly just sad. These people don’t want a sad story. They want something to drive away the nightmares, something to hold onto when life gets tough.

“The world can be at peace,” I say. “It was, long ago, and it will be again. I will make sure of it.”

My gaze travels over them. “I was awoken for a reason. My sleep has ended because it is time to end the war. I can’t do it alone. I need each and every one of you. War ends when we decide it does. So I ask you this: believe in me and believe in humanity. Fight alongside me when the East needs it, and lay down your arms when our land no longer requires it. If you can do this, then the world will know peace once more.”

The crowd goes quiet.

I’ve been too vague. Too optimistic. Too fumbling with my words. I feel it all in the silence.

I’m about to bow my head and walk off stage when one person somewhere out in the crowd begins to pound their fist over their heart.

Another person joins in. And then another.

Soon people are joining in handfuls at a time, then dozens, until eventually, the entire audience is thundering with the sound.

They begin to shout, and I can’t make out the words at first. Eventually, the voices align and I hear it.

“Freedom or death! Freedom or death!”

I stare out at them.

A hundred years of life to become whatever it is you want.

And a hundred years of death to become whatever it is they want.

Chapter 31

Serenity

I draw in a shaky breath as soon as I leave the podium and retreat back to the wings of the stage. I see Marco first, watching me with too-bright eyes. He steps towards me, but I brush past him.

I don’t want to be around him or anyone else for that matter. I’m not sure what I’m feeling, and I want to sort my emotions out alone. I see the king standing off to the side, engrossed in a conversation with several of his officers. His eyes catch mine as he speaks, following me as I walk down the hall.

Several guards fall into formation, two behind me, two in front.

I’m never alone. Never, never alone. And I really would like to be.

I head back to that little room where I waited earlier with the king. Five minutes is all I need to decompress and deal with the fact that I am no longer some abstract concept on a poster, but now a living, breathing ideology that people can consume.

The corridor outside the room is abandoned. I should be relaxing at the sight; solitude is what I wanted. Instead I find myself tensing up.

Behind me I hear several slick sounds. Something warm and wet sprays across my arms and back.

A trap.

In the next instant I hear the wet gurgle of dying men gasping for breath.