Page 29 of Royal Rising

Despite the calm demeanour, the words float between us like some sort of explosive balloon ready to destroy.

There have been hours of discussion about whether I will accept the throne. Sometimes I’m part of these talks, but most times I’m not. I know the security council has regular meetings aboutit and it’s a common topic among the people of Battle Harbour. There’s even a group called the Odinites who likes to protest that Odin should be next in line, but they’re out of luck now.

As far as I can remember, no one has ever outright asked me if I plan to step aside.

Again, this isn’t usual. I know most of the heirs to the thrones in the different monarchies of the world—a few of us are in a group chat and Catharina-Amalia has been trying to get me to join her Facebook group, but I’ve never been a fan of social media—and the fact that I may have an option to not follow in Dad’s footsteps is unheard of. They think I’m crazy to even consider it.

Laandia isn’t your run-of-the-mill monarchy either; my great-grandfather Leif didn’t conquer Canada to get his part of Newfoundland and Labrador. He helped them. Leif Erickson and a group of men, all with Viking ancestors, defended the country against a secret German invasion during World War Two and the Canadian government, encouraged by the United States, offered to reward Leif.

He asked for a country, and they gave it to him, as unbelievable as that seems.

I don’t like history, and I don’t know the exact details of what went down, but I think I would have liked my great-grandfather Leif. He seemed like a take-charge type of man. A doer, ready to get into the thick of things.

Like Edie stopping that fight at the bar last night.

Leif started it all; Laandia was his vision and he made it happen. But then it was my grandfather Euan and my father who have really established Laandia’s place in the world.

I would rather been like Leif—take what I want and make it happen—than like Euan and Dad who had to fight to put everything in motion.

It’s not being a king that I don’t like the thought of, it’s all the mundane, tedious things I’d have to do.

That’s why I have Edie for the bar. She could organize the hairs on my head to stand at attention with a clap of her hands.

“This isn’t about me,” I say, easily sidestepping the question.

“You’re right; it’s about your brother.” Dad’s tone is firm. “Unless you have plans to step away, and then it’s your business as well as Bo’s. Do I need to call your brother home to talk about this?”

My brother is a good man, but no one really thinks of him as king material. Not that he wouldn’t be amazing—Bo is kind and smart and generous—but he’s a loner. An introvert, who tries to avoid people as much as possible. I’m sure—and history lover Bo could confirm—that there have been kings and queens both who like the quiet life, but I can’t imagine putting Bo in the position of having to step into Dad’s shoes.

I’ll have a hard enough time with that myself.

I glance down at my hands in my lap. “No. Bo doesn’t need to be here for this.”

“Does that mean you’ll remain in your position in the line of succession?”

I don’t know how to answer, because there’s so much more to the question than me being king someday in the future. And Dad seems to realize this because he gets up from behind his desk and comes around to lean against the edge.

“When I was your age, I didn’t have a clue if I wanted to be king,” Dad admits in a casual voice. “Do you remember me telling you this?”

I do, even though it’s not something we talk about. Mainly because no one can imagine Laandia without Magnus Erickson as king.

“The band was doing great,” he continues like he’s telling a story and not retelling the history of the country he reigns over. “I was touring and loving the travel. I might have been prince of Laandia but I couldn’t see any reason to come home. I couldn’t see a good reason to be king. I liked my life and I didn’t want anything to change.”

I can understand that.

“My father came to one of our concerts—”

“He came to a concert?” I interrupt. I never met my grandfather, but the portraits suggest he wasn’t a man who enjoyed much, let alone live music. Loud live music.

“He came, but he wasn’t a fan. But he needed to know what I was going to do.”

“What were you going to do?”

The moment stretches on long enough for me to wonder if this is the most important conversation I’ve ever had with my father.

The pause is so long I have time to study him, notice the dash of silver in his dark blond hair has increased to a liberal sprinkling, that there are new lines around his eyes.

His eyes are still as bright and alive as they’ve ever been, full of compassion and love without having to say a word.

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