The news broke like a dam.

By dawn, the Merchant Quarter was buzzing. By midmorning, the Parliament Square was mobbed. By noon, riders on fast horses were carrying the word to every corner of Ashenmoor: The Hollow Crown has chosen. The new monarch is a girl from the Undercity. A commoner. A thief.

Sera watched it all from the attic of Thorne's shop, peering through a grimy window at the chaos below. She'd pulled a woolen cap over the crown—the glow bled through, but from a distance, it just looked like she had a very bright head.

"You need to present yourself to Parliament," Thorne said, pacing the creaking attic floor. He'd been saying this for three hours. "The Law of the Crown is clear. Within seventy-two hours of manifestation, the bearer must present to the assembled lords."

"And then what? They bow and call me Your Majesty?" Sera pulled the cap lower. "I can't even write my name, Thorne. I've never been inside the palace. I don't know which fork to use at dinner because I've never eaten with a fork."

"The crown didn't choose you for your table manners."

"Then why did it choose me?"

Silence. Nobody had an answer for that.

Maren returned from a scouting run, rain-soaked and grim. "The streets are full of house soldiers. Ravencrest has two hundred men in the Market District. Thornwall's cavaliers are outside the Parliament building. I saw Ashford banners near the old bridge."

"They're putting their pieces on the board," Thorne murmured. "Five houses, thirteen years of cold war, and now the crown appears on someone none of them control. They'll be furious."

"Furious enough to kill her?" Maren asked, though her tone said she already knew the answer.

"Killing the crown-bearer is regicide. The punishment is execution of the entire house—every man, woman, and child bearing the name. Aldric was very clear about that." Thorne paused. "But accidents happen. Poisons are subtle. And a girl from the Undercity falling down the palace steps would hardly raise eyebrows."

Sera pressed her forehead against the cold glass. Below, a squad of soldiers in black and silver—Blackmere colors—marched through the square, their captain shouting orders.

Five houses. She needed to understand them if she was going to survive this.

House Ravencrest: the oldest house, led by Lord Aldric Ravencrest the Seventh—yes, named after the Conqueror, as if that gave him a claim. They controlled the northern provinces, the iron mines, and the largest standing army in Ashenmoor. Their motto: "We Were First." Their strategy: brute force.

House Thornwall: the military house. Led by General Isolde Thornwall, the only woman to lead a great house, and the most feared commander on the continent. They held the western border and the mountain passes. Their motto: "Through Any Wall." Their strategy: conquest through competence, and they'd been running the military since the old king died.

House Ashford: the money. Led by Patriarch Oswin Ashford, who controlled the banks, the trade routes, and half the merchant fleet. Their motto: "Gold Endures." Their strategy: buy everything that can be bought, including loyalty.

House Blackmere: the spies. Led by Lady Vivienne Blackmere, who was rumored to know every secret in the kingdom. They operated the intelligence networks, the diplomatic corps, and allegedly, an assassination bureau. Their motto: "We See All." Their strategy: information as power.

House Goldwyn: the scholars. Led by Archon Lysander Goldwyn, head of the Mage Academy and the most powerful magic user in Ashenmoor. They controlled the mages, the healers, and the ancient libraries. Their motto: "Knowledge is the Only Crown." Their strategy: make themselves indispensable and outlast everyone else.

Five houses. Five agendas. And somewhere in the middle, a seventeen-year-old thief with no allies, no army, no gold, and a glowing crown bolted to her skull.

A knock at the attic door. Thorne opened it cautiously.

A boy stood in the doorway—fourteen, maybe fifteen, wearing the gray robes of a palace page.

"I have a message," the boy said, "for the Bearer of the Crown."

Thorne looked at Sera. Sera looked at Maren. Maren looked at her knife.

"Who sent you?" Sera asked.

"The Parliament of Lords. All five houses." The boy held out a sealed letter—five wax seals, each bearing a different house sigil: raven, thorn, ash tree, black lake, golden star. "They request your presence at the Parliament building. Today. Before sunset."

"Or?"

The boy swallowed. "The letter says... the Law of the Crown will be enforced. One way or another."

Sera took the letter. She cracked the seals and read—slowly, sounding out the words. Reading was a skill she'd only half-learned, picking up letters from shop signs and wanted posters.

The message was simple: Present yourself to Parliament by the sixth bell, or be declared in contempt of the Crown Law. Contempt was treason. Treason was death.

Seventy-two hours, Thorne had said. But the houses weren't waiting that long. They wanted this resolved now, before any one house could gain an advantage.

Sera folded the letter. She looked at that small, grimy attic—the leaking ceiling, the dusty junk, the one window looking out over a kingdom that was about to eat itself alive.

Then she straightened her spine. Pulled off the woolen cap. Let the crown glow.

"Maren," she said. "I need a bath, clean clothes, and the biggest pair of boots you can find. If I'm walking into Parliament, I'm not doing it looking like a sewer rat."

Maren stared at her. "You're actually going?"

"I'm actually going." Sera's jaw was set, her eyes hard. The same expression she wore before every dangerous job—the look that said she'd calculated the risks and decided to rob the house anyway. "The crown chose me. I don't know why. But I've spent my whole life being told I'm nothing—by the city, by the guards, by every noble who looked through me like I was glass. The crown says I'm something. And I want to see their faces when I walk through those doors."

Thorne, who had been silent, nodded slowly. "I'll arrange an escort. I know some sellswords who are more reliable than most."

"No sellswords," Sera said. "Just me, Maren, and whatever dignity I can scrape together in four hours."

She looked out the window one last time. The five house banners flew from different towers across the city—raven, thorn, ash, lake, star. Each one owned armies, gold, mages, spies. Each one had spent thirteen years preparing for this moment.

And she had a crown and a knife.

She smiled. It wasn't a warm smile.

"Let's go meet the neighbors."