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October 6, 1993 — Eastwell Park, Atlanta
Dylan
"You do not choose the Queen. She is chosen for you. And once chosen, she is no longer sacred—only necessary."
— The Crown Order, Society Creed, Entry 14
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The letter was creased at the corners from how many times I'd folded it, unfolded it, stared at the ink like it still had something else to say. The paper smelled like old cologne and secrets—like the inside of Royce Clay's jacket when he first handed it to me that night under the chapel steps.
I shouldn't've been reading it again. Not today. Not now. But something about the quiet in Brew 93 made it feel safe enough.
Steam curled up from my coffee. Rain tapped lazy against the window behind me. Outside, Eastwell Park looked half-asleep—oak trees leaned, red leaves scattered across the concrete like forgotten confetti. Nobody was paying attention. Not to me, not to the letter.
I read it one last time anyway.
Mr. Morales,
We have observed your posture, your silence, your hunger. Your name has reached our ears and your record, our hands. The Crown Order extends an interest in your mind, your mouth, and your movement.
If you are ready to let the world forget you ever needed permission—meet us tonight. Midnight. North quad. The gates will open for those who no longer fear the lock.
— Crown Son
That last part always hit different.
I traced the words with my finger like a tattoo I couldn't show nobody. My jaw tightened. I was already in. Been in. Tonight just made it official.
Tonight, they gave me my first Queen. The question was, who?
"Dylan."
Her voice snapped the air like a rubber band. My eyes shot up.
Harlem stood in front of my table, pulling the hood off her head, curly black locs spilling over her shoulders, lips glossy from the rain. She wore an oversized denim jacket, square red glasses, and that smile that always made me forget what I was supposed to be doing.
Right now, that was hiding this goddamn letter.
I snatched it off the table and slid it under my sketchbook like it was nothing. Too fast. Too guilty.
