Secondborn

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It’s agony and relief to watch my life end.

I’m not dying, though my heart aches as if it might. Blood pounds drumbeats through my veins. My temples throb while my mother takes the podium. Spotlights shine on us, burning away the gloom of predawn light. Pausing like a seasoned conductor before an orchestra, Mother waits for the applause to die down. She’s the consummate politician, serene before the gathered crowd in the courtyard. She surveys the cameras before her, knowing the effect her stoicism has on the citizens assembled beneath the grand balcony of the Palace of the Sword. Their hearts break for her—for a mother’s sacrifice. These are her supporters, handpicked to be here, to witness history.

The cool morning air teases a wisp of silky brown hair from the elegant knot at her nape. Navy-colored banners twist in the wind, images of golden swords flapping behind her in the breeze. She holds back a smile.

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