The prince sat in the throne room, alone with the royal crown. His every move caused echoes in the massive stone chamber, and dawn threatened to give some color to the room's deep shadows.

He brushed his hand across his balding head for the ten thousandth time since sequestering himself in the throne room last night. With dawn came his coronation, and the setting of the royal crown on his royal head.

Enchanted, the crown judged the fitness of an heir to rule. All his life he had anticipated the crown on his brow, its mystic gem glowing triumphant green. He had studied, negotiated treaties, settled disputes, been king in all but name.

But never king. Until impatience moved him to suffocate his father beneath a pillow and let the royal physician declare heart failure.

Now, the jewel would shine crimson, declaring him unfit. Fleeing would brand him just the same. His life, wasted, because of his impatience. Better to face justice now than after years of hiding.

So he bathed, and dressed, and knelt for the ceremony. When the crown touched him, it shone green. The prince—the king—felt a stunned relief… and then a confusion that would haunt him.