“Everything,” I admitted. “Tomorrow traitors to my king will die, and I cry for them. I’m the weakest kind of Timoran. I hate that I feel this torment inside, how I love my people and hate them all at once. How I love Ettans but stand above them. How I’m fascinated by fae but fear them. The weight of it is crushing, and tomorrow I will be expected to sneer, to shout, to hate.
