Dominion

My classwork today is to write an essay on three reasons why we should always praise Queen Auriela. The words glare up at me from the top of the page in our teacher’s neat, pinched handwriting, as if even the ink expects obedience.

Around me, the classroom hums with the usual scratch of pencils, the creak of old wooden benches, and the restless shifting of bodies that have spent too many years packed into the same room. Sunlight slips through the cracked windows in dusty bars and lands across our desks, turning every floating speck into glittering ash. Along the walls, two polished school robots move in slow, quiet loops, their enamel shells cream-colored and spotless as they collect scraps of paper before they ever settle.

After this, we’re off to college, maybe even university, depending on what our parents can afford—or what they’re willing to spend. That thought should feel exciting. It should feel like a door opening.

Instead, it feels like standing at the edge of something too high to see the bottom of.

I glance at my friend Skylar. Her hands are shaking so badly the paper trembles between her fingers, making a faint rattling sound I can hear even over the rest of the room. Her nails are bitten down to the quick. Her shoulders are drawn tight enough to snap. She keeps staring at the page without writing a single word, as if she waits long enough, the assignment might dissolve and take the future with it.

I try to break the ice before the silence swallows us both.

"So, this is it, huh?" I murmur, leaning a little closer so the teacher won’t hear. "We’ve been in this school since prekindergarten, and now we’re leaving in eleventh grade. Honestly, it’s a breather everyone needed."

I force out a small laugh, but it falls flat between us. Even to me, the words sound thin—like I’m trying to patch a leaking roof with paper. Still, I keep my face easy, casual, like this is all normal and not the last day of the only life we’ve ever known.

Skylar responds hoarsely, but I can feel the anger underneath her voice, hot and sharp as something pulled straight from a fire.

"You think my parents will be sending me to college?" she whispers. Then the whisper cracks. "They’ll have me working in the fields, just like all my other siblings!"

A few heads turn at the force of it before quickly turning away again. No one likes looking too interested when someone says something too honest.

I go silent, a hard lump rising in my throat so fast it hurts. There are a hundred things I could say—something comforting, something hopeful, something smart enough to make any of this better—but every single one of them feels useless. So I just sit there with my hands folded over my paper, staring at the lines I haven’t written, feeling guilty for every future I’ve ever let myself imagine.

"Olivia and Skylar... Heh. What’s it like not being able to spend a single dreg on things from the factory?" Anastasia asks.

Of course, it’s her.

Her voice drifts over from two desks away, sweet in the way spoiled fruit is sweet. I don’t even have to look to picture the expression on her face: chin tipped up, lips curled, ribbons neat, shoes polished enough to catch the light. Anastasia never speaks unless she’s sure someone else will come away smaller for it.

Don’t respond. Don’t respond. DON’T RESPON—

The words pound through my head in time with my pulse. My fingers tighten around my pencil until the wood bites into my skin. If I look at her, I’ll say something stupid. If I say something stupid, the teacher will hear. If the teacher hears, the whole thing will become bigger than it already is. So I keep my eyes on my page and try to breathe through the heat crawling up my neck.

"Pretty good, actually. Everything is homemade," Skylar says.

Her voice is steady—steady enough to make me turn and stare at her. I didn’t expect that answer from her. There’s no tremor in it now, no apology either. Just a plain, solid sort of pride that lands harder than any insult could have. For a second, I almost smile.

Anastasia sneers. "Can’t believe my parents sent me to this dirty school to ‘toughen up’..."

She says dirty as if the word itself disgusts her, dragging it out while she flicks an invisible speck from her sleeve. Her bracelets glint when she moves. Everything about her looks expensive, delicate, imported from somewhere that never smells like rust or sweat or dust baked under a hot sun.

Before either of us can answer, our teacher rings the rusty bell at the front of the room, and the harsh clang scrapes through the air hard enough to make me flinch. It isn’t really a clean ringing sound at all. It’s more like metal grinding against metal, rough and ugly and familiar. The chatter in the room breaks apart beneath it.

"Now, now, children, you have fifteen minutes of break time, like always," the teacher says. Her voice has that worn-out firmness adults get when they’ve spent years trying to control too many students with too little authority. "Think about your word choice if you decide to work on your essay during break."

Word choice. As if there are endless ways to praise a queen and still mean any of them.

The children scatter through the small schoolyard the second they’re allowed to move, all scraping chairs and stomping feet and noisy relief. A few sleek household robots trail after their usual owners at a respectful distance, pausing now and then to pick up dropped wrappers or smooth their paths through the dust with tidy, efficient movements.

Skylar and I make our way to the courtyard without speaking. The air outside feels hotter, brighter, sharper on my skin. Dust shifts over the ground with every step. We sit on a cluster of rocks near the edge of the yard, and they’re so rough they feel like sandpaper through our clothes, snagging at the fabric of my skirt.

For a few moments, we both just stare at the sand. A dry breeze skims across the courtyard and lifts a few grains into tiny spirals before letting them fall again. Somewhere nearby, a group of younger children shrieks in laughter. Somewhere farther off, someone coughs and coughs and coughs.

"Skylar," I say firmly.

The word comes out more serious than I meant it to, maybe because I’m still thinking about how she sounded in class. Maybe because I can feel something shifting inside her, and inside me too, though I’m not ready to name it yet.

We finally both look up at each other.

Her eyes are rimmed red, though whether from anger or embarrassment or both, I can’t tell. She squints a little in the sunlight. I realize I’ve been avoiding her gaze the same way I’ve been avoiding the truth all day.

"How’d you do that back there in class?" I ask. "Y’know, with Anastasia. Usually, you stay silent as a mouse whenever you have the chance."

I try to make it sound teasing, light enough that she can laugh it off if she wants, but curiosity keeps slipping through. Maybe admiration too. Skylar has spent years folding herself smaller whenever someone richer, louder, or crueler walked into the room. Seeing her push back feels like watching a match catch after being struck over and over in the dark.

"I’m just... tired of it, y’know. Being dragged around like old, useless dolls. Aren’t you?" Skylar asks.

Her voice has gone quiet again, but not weak. Quiet in the way deep water is quiet. The question sits between us, simple and impossible. I pick at the edge of my sleeve instead of answering. In the distance, the bell rope taps softly against the school wall in the wind.

I don’t respond, but that question sticks with me for the rest of the day.

It follows me back into the classroom, where the essays fill with stiff, careful praise. It follows me past the cracked walls and the faded lessons hanging crooked at the front of the room. It follows me all the way to the final bell, settling somewhere behind my ribs like a stone I can’t cough up.

»»————-　♔　————-««

I stop by the statue of Queen Auriela for my mandatory weekly tribute before I go home. The statue rises from the center of the square on a stone pedestal so tall that the rest of us seem made to bow whether we want to or not. Auriela’s carved face is calm and perfect, chin lifted, one hand extended like she’s blessing the whole kingdom. Pigeons have left streaks on the base, though no one ever mentions that.

I’ve kept a flower tucked deep in my pocket just for this. By the time I pull it out, the stem is bent and warm from being pressed against me. I give it one last look. It’s barely even wilted. That must be one stubborn plant.

I lay it at the foot of the statue with the others—fresher ones, prettier ones, flowers bought by people who can afford to waste beauty on stone. For a moment, I keep my head bowed like everyone expects. My lips move through the familiar words of thanks and loyalty, but Skylar’s voice keeps tangling itself through them until I’m not sure what I’m saying anymore.

I walk home, trying to ignore every cough that follows me from the people in rags huddled along the street. Sleek service robots pass now and then beside better-dressed families, all gleaming white panels and quiet precision, stooping to gather trash from the road before falling neatly back into step behind their usual owners.

By the time I reach our door, the sky has gone the dull color of old tin, and the house is waiting in its usual silence—small, worn, and tired-looking, like it’s been holding itself together out of habit. Skylar’s question weighs on me like a pair of two-hundred-pound iron boots.

Pa pours me a cup of tea. The kitchen smells faintly of steeped herbs, warm dust, and the kind of lingering heat that never quite leaves the walls. Everything feels close and familiar—the rough table, the dim light, the quiet that settles heavier here than it does outside. I stare at the mug.

"How was school? Last day, I heard." He grinned at me, trying to get me to react in any possible way.

"Eh. Could’ve been better, I guess. Where’d ya put Rover?" I ask, taking a casual sip of the tea. It tastes earthy, almost dirty, but in a way I’ve gotten used to.

Pa’s grin fades in seconds. "Ollie, you’re getting obsessed with that thing. Do you want to get sent to the factories, like your other schoolmates have been?"

I shake my head."Now drink your tea and relax. You have a lot waiting for you in the days ahead."

I walk down the hall, where the floorboards creak under my steps, and the air feels cooler, still. My room is dim and plain. Tired, I plop onto my bed, the mattress sagging in the middle. For the first time all day, I let myself sit with the question Skylar asked me. I finally have an answer.

Yes. One hundred percent yes.