Secondborn

Tiny brown holographic swords project from the lapel of my new, dirt-colored uniform. Tropo. I try not to wince. The emblem denotes the lowest secondborn rank in the military, the mark of the infantry—the expendables. My throat constricts. I swallow hard, attempting to clear it. Dune’s tall frame beside me is comforting. That my mentor, the Captain of the Guard, insisted on being here for the announcement means more to me than I can say. He cares about what happens to me, maybe more than my own family does.

The holographic swords on Dune’s lapels flicker in my peripheral vision. It had always been my hope that when I reached my Transition Day, I’d wear silver swords like Dune, even though I’m not firstborn. I’d guard a Clarity—a leader of one of the nine Fates of the Republic—protecting her from threats to her life. A leader like my mother, Othala St. Sismode, Clarity of the Fate of Swords. As commander of the military, she is one of the most powerful Clarities, second only to the Supreme Leader, the Clarity of the Fate of Virtues himself. If she had granted me the rank of Iono, made me an officer in her personal guard, I could have proved my worth to her. I could have stayed with my family and Dune. I could have protected them.

But she didn’t.

Now I know that it was only a fantasy. I’ll never be one of them. I’ll always be just a secondborn, a shadow, soon to fade from their lives.

Mother’s lips are a delicate pink in the frosty air. She lowers her voice. “I’m not immune to your suffering,” she resumes. “I have not placed my needs as a mother above those of the citizens of this embattled nation. No. I accept the sacrifice that we all make as just and necessary to our survival. Today, I give over to our cause my only daughter, Roselle. My heart. My life. My secondborn.”

Tears wet the faces of the spectators. They believe that they know me well. I’ve grown up in front of their eyes—in front of the cameras. They watched me take my first toddling steps, say my first words, lose my first fight, win my second one, and train rigorously with Dune in order to one day defend the Fates of the Republic from all threats to their sovereignty.

Mother’s eyes remain dry. “Roselle may be young,” she continues, “but you have witnessed her evolve into a soldier. She’s ready to do her duty—to join the ranks of Swords who now fight to strike the Gates of Dawn rebels from our land, from our world, and from our minds forever.” The roar of applause is deafening. Mother bites the inside of her cheek. “It is a sad day for me and for my family, but we will endure the Transition. We will flourish in the knowledge that another St. Sismode will be protecting us.”

She turns to me and joins the crowd in its applause. I don’t move. I don’t acknowledge them in any way. I’m like the banners waving behind us, a symbol, blown by forces over which I have no control.

Mother leans into the microphones. “It is my wish to have a few final moments alone with my daughter. You can follow Roselle’s journey to Transition as she leaves the estate today. Thank you for your support. Long live the Fates!”

“Long live the Fates!” Chanting begins in earnest as my indomitable mother steps away from the podium. She squares her small shoulders and breezes past without looking at me.

Chapter 1

Crown of Swords

I trail my mother, her personal assistant, and four public relations specialists as they retreat toward the beveled-glass doors of the St. Sismode Palace. Clara, the newest PR assistant, hands Othala a glass of water, waits for her to sip it, and takes it back from her. Fumbling, she spills some on herself. Clara’s sparkling moniker, the holographic symbol that projects up from the back of her hand, shines like crystal as she dabs at the water droplets with a lacy handkerchief.

She’s a Diamond, I think. She won’t last long here among the Sword aristocracy. I feel a twinge of pity. It’s not as if Clara ever had a choice. She’s secondborn. She was placed in this den of lions, and if she fails, it will be a long fall. Females who don’t make it in their secondborn Transition positions usually end up in the entertainment sector. I shudder. She’ll probably become a plaything for some firstborn officer. Clara teeters on her elegant high heels and tries to keep up with my mother’s rapid pace.

As we enter the mansion, my eyes are drawn to the stone pediment above the doors. I wonder if Clara even notices the ancient warriors carved above the frieze, or that our name, St. Sismode, is etched upon the swords of the soldiers. Does she realize that a St. Sismode has been the Clarity of the Fate of Swords since anyone can remember?