Free All That Burns by Ryan Graudin

awake, drenched in sweat, my arm oozing from freshly split scabs.
    It’s been two whole weeks since the Labyrinth of Man, but the dream keeps coming. Each time it’s the same. Breena stands with her back to me, facing the clouds. Ravens crowd at my feet and my ears flood with the same, relentless syllables: RE-MEM-BER . Over and over. The mist clears and Arthur’s kingdom burns. Guinevere appears, shrieking riddles—insanities into my ear.
    And always, the final fall.
    It happens every single time I close my eyes, start to drift. So I’ve stopped closing them. Lived on cups of black coffee and pulled all-nighters helping Anabelle piece together the final coronation details.
    The princess is still staring at the flowers, listing off everything that could possibly go wrong. “What if all of this falls apart?”
    “You’ve done an amazing job,” I tell her. “We chose Windsor so our magical guests could attend more easily. If the press doesn’t understand that then good riddance.”
    “We need the press on our side, Emrys. They have power. They make quite a nasty enemy.”
    She’s right, but I don’t think it matters. The press has made their side quite clear. Every morning, there are new headlines. Choppy, alliterative punches to the gut. Things like: DRAGGING US DOWN TO THE DARK AGES and BRUTAL BLACK DOG BITE BRINGS OUT INTEGRATION PROTESTORS .
    “Well, you’re not going to get stood up. Half of Parliament is already here for a tour of potential reforestation sites. And Titania plans on arriving this evening.” I can’t keep the strain out of my voice when I say the Faery queen’s name.
    The dreams have kept me up at night, yes, but it’s Titania’s silence that’s weighed on me. The utter lack of news. With every messenger sparrow, every youngling Fae fresh from the Faery queen’s court, I hold my breath and hopefor something which might point to the escaped prisoner. But Queen Titania’s notes come to me empty.
    Every time I think of asking I hear her words: clean and hard as steel. This is no longer your battle.
    And then there’s Richard. Who pretends that everything is fine, that he didn’t pull away. Who pecks me on the cheek between meetings and says he isn’t afraid.
    But he is. I see it in his eyes when he thinks I’m not looking. I feel it in the way he doesn’t kiss me deep. There’s so much space between us, even when our bodies are pressed together.
    I’ve given up everything and it’s still not enough.
    “I just can’t help worrying. I can’t . . .” The princess shuts her eyes. The circles under them are so dark they could be ink stains.
    She’s pushing too hard. Just like the rest of us.
    “Belle, are you all right?” I step closer to the princess. She’s breathing hard, her face pink.
    “F-fine.” She opens her eyes. There’s a smile on her lips, but I still see how they’re shaking.
    “You’re not fine.” I reach out for her shoulder. “You’re about to have a panic attack. Sit down.”
    It happens all at once. A whirlwind of sound and shatter. The vase behind us becomes fragments by our feet.Blossoms spread like leftover confetti, stewing in a pool of water.
    Anabelle stares at the mess with wide eyes.
    My hand is suspended, still halfway reaching for the princess’s shoulder. All the hairs on my arm are alert, humming.
    “I—it must have—” The pink in her face deepens to a sunset shade. “I must not have placed it right.”
    She kneels down in the puddle, starts scooping up shards and petals. I look at the corner table, note that it was far wider than the vase. All the windows in the room are closed, shielding off any wind.
    I look at Anabelle, fishing fragments out of the water with panicked fingers.
    “Belle . . .”
    She looks up when I say her name. Eyes as messy and shiny as the puddle.
    “Did you do that?” My question hangs, uncertain. Trying to ask without really asking. The tremble in her lip, the shattered vase . . . the barest