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The bells began before the sun, though Maris had already been awake for nearly an hour.
The kitchens were thick with the scent of yeast and woodsmoke when she tied her apron in the dark and stepped into the corridor. Her fingers were stiff from sleep and cold stone, but the castle did not wait for comfort. It rarely did. Around her, other servants moved quickly and quietly, their footsteps softened by rushes newly laid along the passage floors. The air carried the restless energy of something imminent, something rehearsed for years and finally arriving.
Today, the kingdom would reap what it had sown.
Contalio Castle had not known silence in weeks. Carriages had arrived day after day, wheels crunching over gravel before dawn and long after dusk. Noble daughters stepped down from lacquered coaches in gowns layered like petals, their fathers close behind them with careful smiles and calculating eyes. Silks from the southern coasts shimmered in jewel tones; heavy furs from the north brushed against polished marble; jewels glittered beneath chandeliers like captured constellations. The castle swallowed them all.
They called it the Selection, though nothing about it felt simple enough to deserve so plain a name.
It was not a single ceremony but a procession of them, three days of banquets, private audiences, music, riding exhibitions, and evening balls leading up to the formal declaration that the Prince would soon ascend the throne in his father’s stead. Marriage was required before coronation; tradition insisted upon it. A king must be anchored before he rules.
Yet the festival was larger than one union. Eligible heirs from across the realm had gathered alongside the young women dukes’ sons, newly elevated lords, and ambitious captains granted titles by royal favour. Alliances would be forged between dances, dowries negotiated behind velvet drapery, futures altered with nothing more dramatic than a prolonged conversation beneath candlelight.
The girls understood this well enough.
They arrived smiling and gracious, offering compliments that shimmered as brightly as their necklaces. They laughed together in drawing rooms, walked arm in arm through the gardens, and measured one another with careful glances that never quite lingered long enough to be called unkind. They noticed which families were granted private suppers with the King. They counted how long the Prince spoke to each of them during receptions. They observed who was invited to ride at dawn and who remained behind to practice pianoforte in overheated parlours.
Nothing was announced. No victories declared.
But elevation had a scent, and humiliation carried one too.
Maris balanced a basket of pressed linens against her hip as she passed beneath tapestries newly beaten free of dust. Silver gleamed so brightly along the bannisters that it almost hurt her eyes. Ivy and winter roses had been wound carefully around the railings, their fragrance mingling with beeswax and polish. The castle looked resplendent — almost benevolent.
The King had prepared for this for years.
He had granted failing lords new lands when their coffers thinned, elevated minor barons to earldoms, and opened trade routes for houses whose loyalty proved helpful. Generosity, the court had called it. Stability.
Maris suspected it had been cultivated.
Now those same men arrived with daughters poised and perfect, each family confident that their loyalty, their patience, their gratitude would bear fruit.
And one would.
“Move,” the head cook muttered as Maris stepped into the western gallery with a tray of fresh scones warming her palms. “The Prince breaks his fast at dawn.”
The Prince.
Maris had seen him only twice up close in all her years at Contalio.
Once, long ago, when he would run unchecked through these corridors with a wooden sword, laughter echoing high against vaulted ceilings. She remembered how his boots had scuffed the walls, how a footman had chased him in flustered distress.
The second time had been last winter, when he returned from Harding School and stood beside the King during a public hearing. He had not spoken. He had scarcely moved. Whatever softness had once animated him seemed to have been carved away, leaving something disciplined and unreadable in its place.
This morning, when the eastern doors opened, and his footsteps sounded across the marble, that transformation felt complete.
He was already dressed in ceremonial black, the fabric cut sharply to his frame, silver signet glinting at his throat. Every seam sat perfectly; every line was intentional. His hair was arranged without fault, his posture upright and unyielding. There was no trace of reluctance in his movements, no sign of a man newly risen from sleep.
He looked prepared not merely for the day, but for the crown itself.
He paused before the tall arched windows overlooking the courtyard. Dawn had begun to wash the sky in pale grey, and another carriage was rolling through the gates below. From where she stood, Maris could see his reflection in the glass more clearly than his face: calm, expressionless, assessing.
“This will be concluded swiftly,” he said at last, his voice even and measured, as though reviewing a schedule rather than discussing his own marriage.
He adjusted the cuff at his wrist with deliberate care.
“Marriage is the first duty. Not the last.”
His gaze did not waver from the courtyard, where daughters stepped carefully onto gravel in gowns chosen to dazzle.
“There are matters of governance that require attention,” he continued, almost to himself. “Trade disputes along the western coast. The question of tariffs with the Eastern Fleet. Reports from the northern border.”
The festival below him shimmered with colour and ambition, but none of it seemed to reach his expression.
“This spectacle serves its function,” he said. “Then it ends.”
Maris felt, inexplicably, that she was listening not to a man preparing for courtship but to a future king arranging pillars beneath a throne.
“I already know who will be chosen .”
The words were spoken without hesitation.
Lady Elowen Ashbury, Duchess of Greyford, daughter of the King’s most trusted ally, companion to the Prince since childhood, raised within these very halls often enough that many servants already bowed to her instinctively.
It was a seamless alignment of power.
And power, Maris had learned, rarely allowed room for surprise.
A horn sounded in the courtyard, its note carrying upward through the open stonework. The Prince turned from the window, his expression unchanged, and passed her without acknowledgement. She lowered her eyes as he moved by, steady and unhurried.
Only when he had gone did she allow herself to look toward the gates.
Another carriage had entered the courtyard.
Its banners were unlike any she had seen in Contalio before, deep midnight blue edged in gold thread that caught the growing light. The horses were tall and sleek, their harnesses ornamented with unfamiliar patterns etched into burnished metal. The guards who rode alongside wore armour unlike the kingdom’s own, their skin dark against the pale stone of the castle walls.
Servants nearby slowed, if only for a heartbeat.
The carriage door had not yet opened, but something about its presence felt less like participation and more like arrival.
Maris shifted the tray in her hands, her pulse quickening for reasons she could not entirely explain.
For all the King’s careful planting, for all the Prince’s certainty, she had lived long enough to know that seeds did not always grow as intended.
And sometimes what took root was never invited at all.
The marble steps leading into the lower courtyard had been washed before dawn, though dust already gathered along the edges where boots and carriage wheels disturbed it. The Prince descended them without haste, aware of the eyes that followed him, servants from upper balconies, guards at attention, noble daughters arranged in polite clusters beneath silk parasols.
His father stood at the centre of it all.
King Alaric looked every bit his years and none of their burden. His shoulders were still broad, his beard streaked with iron-grey rather than weakness, his posture animated with the energy of a man who delighted in ceremony. At his side stood Queen Mirelle, younger by nearly two decades, luminous in pale lavender silk that caught the morning light and softened her sharp gaze. She smiled easily, though her eyes missed very little.
To the King’s left stood Cassian.
Not a prince. Never a prince.
The court called him Lord Cassian Vale, though everyone knew what blood ran through his veins. The King’s son born before marriage, acknowledged but never legitimised. Raised within these walls, educated alongside the heir, yet barred by law from ever claiming the crown.
He and the Prince were nearly the same height now. Cassian’s dark hair fell a little less precisely arranged, his stance more relaxed, one hand resting casually near the hilt of the ceremonial blade at his side. Where the Prince appeared sculpted for rule, Cassian carried something more restless, a sharpness that had not been polished smooth.
Their eyes met briefly as the Prince joined them.
A flicker of understanding passed between them.
Neither smiled.
“You are late, Lucian,” the King said, though there was no reprimand in his tone.
“I am punctual,” the Prince replied evenly.
King Alaric chuckled, turning his attention back to the gates where another carriage approached. “Look at them,” he murmured, almost fondly. “So much promise gathered in one place.”
The Prince did not share the sentiment. A promise was only valuable when it could be directed.
One by one, the arriving families were announced. The Prince stepped forward with mechanical grace, offering a courteous incline of his head, taking gloved hands and pressing a restrained kiss to silk-covered knuckles. He thanked them for their journey. He spoke of safe travels and hoped for comfort. He remembered names.
He did not remember faces.
Most of the young women wore pale shades — soft lilacs, spring greens, blush pink colours chosen to suggest gentleness, modesty, compliance. Their smiles were practised. Their curtsies are precise. Some trembled faintly when he touched their hands. Others held his gaze a second too long.
He responded to each with the same measured composure.
Beside him, the King beamed, occasionally interjecting with warmth, praising lineages, recalling shared hunts and trade agreements. Queen Mirelle offered elegant nods, her approval subtle but visible.
Cassian observed.
Then the herald’s voice shifted.
There was a pause before the next name was announced, not from uncertainty, but recognition.
The King straightened.
The carriage that rolled through the gates bore midnight-blue banners edged in gold thread that shimmered richly beneath the rising sun. The horses were larger than those typically bred in Contalio, their tack ornamented with etched metalwork unlike any forged here.
The first to descend was a man of a similar age to King Alaric, though his posture was no less commanding. His skin was deep bronze, his hair a striking burnished ginger that caught fire in the light. He moved with measured authority, not waiting for assistance.
A murmur rippled through the gathered crowd.
His wife followed, equally poised, equally striking, her hair a lighter copper hue, intricately braided against dark skin. She surveyed the courtyard with an expression that suggested neither awe nor intimidation.
The King stepped forward before the herald had even finished.
“King gbọpẹ,” Alaric called warmly, descending one step in welcome. “You honour us with your presence. I know the journey from Aseré is no small undertaking.”
The visiting king clasped his forearm firmly. “The pleasure is ours, Alaric. I have long intended to return to your court. It has been too many years since we hunted the western ridge as boys.”
There was history there, unspoken but undeniable.
“And much to discuss,” Alaric replied, a glint passing briefly through his eyes.
A third figure stepped from the carriage.
Younger.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered and unmistakably forged by something harsher than court etiquette. His hair matched his father’s, though it was shorter and less ornamental. There was a scar on his jaw that did not look decorative. His posture was alert rather than ceremonial, the stance of someone accustomed to real battle rather than choreographed displays.
He did not bow immediately.
He assessed.
Cassian’s interest sharpened.
Then she stepped out.
The courtyard quieted — not from command, but instinct.
Her gown was a deep shade between indigo and royal purple, the fabric heavy and luminous against her dark skin. It did not attempt modesty through pastel softness; it commanded attention without apology. Gold embroidery traced along the bodice in patterns unfamiliar to Contalio’s artisans. Her hair — the same burnished copper — fell in controlled waves down her back.
The other girls' colours suddenly seemed faint.
Not diminished.
But pale.
Lady Elowen Ashbury, who had until that moment stood slightly ahead of the others in a gown of delicate rose, stepped smoothly back into alignment with the line of waiting ladies. Her expression did not falter. Her smile remained serene.
But she did not look away.
The Prince found himself watching more closely than he intended.
Not because of beauty, though it was undeniable, but because she did not appear to be seeking approval. She stood beside her parents as though this were not a competition, but a negotiation.
King Alaric’s voice carried proudly as introductions were made. Formalities exchanged—polite acknowledgements given.
Then it fell to the Prince.
He stepped forward once more, resuming the practised ritual. One by one, he greeted the remaining young women who had yet to receive him, offering identical courtesy.
When he reached her, there was a fractional hesitation so slight that only someone standing near might have detected it.
He took her hand.
Her skin was warm against his, soft in a way that made him catch his breath. As he lifted it toward his lips, a scent radiant and unlike anything he had ever known reached him. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, yet utterly arresting, wrapping around him like sunlight through mist. touching her, he could feel the delicate soft skin beneath his fingers. It was intimate and electric, and for reasons he couldn’t name, it made his chest tighten, his mind reel.
For the first time that morning, he truly looked at her. Her gaze met his without fluster. Not defiant. Not submissive. Simply steady.
“My lord,” she said evenly, a faint curiosity beneath the formality. “Is there something amiss?”
And in that moment, with the scent, the touch, the sheer force of her presence, he realised emotions were stirring in him he didn’t yet understand, tiny, dangerous, impossible things that made the world seem to narrow to just this hand in his, this woman before him.
It was not an accusation.
It was an observation.
He released her hand with measured calm. “Nothing at all.”
He pressed the kiss to her knuckles as he had done with the others.
Yet something in his expression had altered not visibly enough for the court to note, but sufficient that Cassian’s brow lifted almost imperceptibly.
He continued down the line.
Elowen was last.
She dipped into a perfect curtsy, her smile soft and familiar.
“My Prince.”
He allowed himself the smallest, restrained, controlled answering smile, undeniably warmer than the rest.
“Lady Elowen.”
It was the only moment of personal recognition he permitted.
Soon after, the assembled guests were guided inside, servants directing families toward chambers prepared for the duration of the festival. Silk rustled along corridors. Laughter floated upward in nervous currents. Whispers bloomed before doors had even closed.
In one of the adjoining salons, a cluster of young women gathered near tall windows overlooking the inner gardens.
“Did you see her dress?” one murmured, fanning herself though the morning was mild.
“It was hardly appropriate for a courtship,” another replied lightly. “More suited to a coronation.”
“She must not understand how things are done here.”
“She will learn.”
Across the room, the visiting princess listened without appearing to do so, her attention seemingly fixed on the carved ceiling beams above. Yet her posture remained alert, absorbing tone as much as content.
They were not unkind.
But they were not welcoming either.
They shared language, customs, and neighbouring histories. She shared none of those.
And though the courtyard had returned to noise and colour, something subtle had shifted.
The Prince felt it.
So did Elowen.
And Cassian, watching from the balcony above, felt something else entirely.
Interest.
Sometimes duty surpasses emotion, and sometimes emotion surprises duty. Still, in this kingdom, where things are hanging literally by a thread, the decision to follow your heart or the well-being of your people and your subjects is a choice that is made time and time again.