3 - Let the games begin

LIRA

The carriage rattled to a stop.

I pressed my palm flat against my stomach, trying to calm the churning inside me. Four days of bumpy roads and sleepless nights. Four days of rehearsing lies and memorizing details of a life that wasn't mine. Four days of pretending I was someone else.

The real preparation had taken longer.

Finding clothes in Lady Lira's wardrobe that were fit for presentation had been difficult. Most of her gowns were outdated, faded from years of disuse. My brother had scraped together every last coin to buy me a few additional items, a cloak here, a pair of gloves there and to rent the carriage that brought me here.

I looked down at my dress.

Deep green. Simple. Nothing like the glittering gowns the other girls would be wearing.

It doesn't matter, I told myself. You're not here to impress them. You're here to destroy them.

The carriage door opened.

A footman offered his hand.

I took it.

And stepped out into the lion's den.

---

The courtyard was pure chaos.

Carriages lined the cobblestone drive, dozens of them, each more elaborate than the last. Horses stamped and snorted, their breath fogging in the cool morning air. Servants bustled past with trunks and armfuls of silk, calling out instructions in a dozen different accents.

And everywhere, everywhere, there were girls.

Noble ladies in gowns of every color imaginable, their hair pinned and perfumed, their faces painted with careful, practiced smiles. They moved in clusters, whispering behind gloved hands, sizing each other up with eyes that missed nothing.

I was last.

My carriage had been the cheapest, the smallest, the least impressive. I could feel the other girls' gazes sliding past me, dismissing me before they'd even registered my face.

I joined the back of the line, careful to keep my head high and my expression neutral. Around me, the other girls glittered like jewels.

Lady Vivienne Trevanne stepped out first, dark hair cascading like silk, crimson gown embroidered with gold. The Trevannes were known for their strength. May you have the strength of the Trevannes, the people said.

She looked like she could break a man in half with her bare hands.

Then came Lady Saphira Caelum, silver and blue, her gown sparkling like starlight, her feet barely seeming to touch the ground. The Caelums had telekinesis. Rumor said she had once levitated during a duel.

Lady Elora Dorne arrived next. Softer than the others. Quieter. Her gown was pale yellow, simple and unassuming, her brown hair pinned back in a style that was almost severe. But Elora was wealthier than all of us combined. The Dornes had a gift: life from soil. Their farms fed more than half the kingdom.

And then…

Lady Calista Harthwell exited her carriage.

The crowd seemed to still.

She was beautiful, there was no other word for it. Hair like spun gold, eyes like winter frost, lips curved in a smile that never quite reached her gaze. Her gown was white, pristine, embroidered with silver thread. It looked like a wedding gown.

She stepped onto the cobblestones like she already owned them. Her eyes swept across the courtyard, across the other girls, the servants, the guards, and I could see her calculating.

I had never met Calista Harthwell before.

But I already knew: she was dangerous.

-———————————

"Come in, ladies! Come, come!"

A royal instructor stood at the top of the steps, a woman in her fifties, grey-haired and sharp-faced, with eyes that missed nothing. She clapped her hands together once, sharp as a whip crack.

"Please form a straight line. We will collect your sealed letters first, and then you may enter the grand hall for the welcoming ceremony."

The line formed quickly.

I took my place at the very end.

My heart was pounding.

If the letter isn't right, if the seal is off, if the handwriting is wrong, if anything gives me away…

They wouldn't just throw me out.

They'd execute me.

Impersonating a noble was treason.

Treason meant death.

You knew this, I told myself. You knew the risk. You chose it anyway.

The line moved quickly. One girl after another stepped forward, handed over her letter, and was waved inside. The instructor barely glanced at most of them, a quick check of the seal, a nod, a gesture toward the doors.

But the closer I got to the front, the tighter the knot in my stomach became.

My hands were trembling.

I clasped them behind my back, pressing my fingers into my palms until the pain grounded me.

Breathe.

Just breathe.

Finally…

It was my turn.

I stepped forward.

The instructor's gaze swept over me, once, twice, assessing. I forced myself to hold still beneath it, to keep my expression soft and open, the way I imagined the real Lady Lira might have looked.

Nervous and excited. A little overwhelmed.

Nothing more.

"Your letter, my lady," the instructor said.

I handed it over.

My fingers didn't shake.

Good girl, I told myself. Keep it together.

The instructor took the letter. Examined the seal first, circling her thumb over the crimson wax, checking for imperfections, for signs of tampering.

Then she broke it open.

And she began to read.

I held my breath.

The seconds stretched. Each one felt like an hour.

She read slowly. Carefully. Her brow furrowed slightly, and her lips moved as she traced the words.

She hadn't spent this long on any of the other letters.

Why is she taking so long?

Was it the handwriting? The wording? The signature?

Had Callum made a mistake?

Had I?

Panic whispered at the back of my mind.

Give up.

You've been caught.

Run before they drag you to the dungeons.

But I didn't move.

Couldn't move.

My feet were rooted to the cobblestones.

The instructor finished reading. Folded the letter slowly. And looked up at me.

Her brow was furrowed. Her eyes were sharp, sharper than they'd been a moment ago.

"Lady Lira of the Vale?" she asked.

Confusion flickered across her face.

I froze.

She knows.

She knows.

She…

"Welcome to the Selection," the instructor said.

She gestured toward the doors.

I walked past her.

My legs didn't shake.

But inside, deep inside, where no one could see…

I was falling apart.

---

The grand hall was even more overwhelming than the courtyard. We had been given a rose flower pin to differentiate us from all the other nobles.

Chandeliers of crystal and gold hung from the vaulted ceiling, scattering light across the marble floors. Tapestries depicting the history of the Valemont line covered the walls, dragons and kings, battles and treaties, centuries of power distilled into woven thread.

The other girls had already gathered near the front, forming clusters of silk and jewels and whispered gossip. I stood at the back, alone, trying to make myself smaller.

Keep your head down, I told myself. Don't draw attention. Don't…

The doors at the far end of the hall opened.

A herald's voice rang out:

"Presenting His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Cassian Valemont, Heir to the Dragon Throne."

The room went silent.

And then I saw him.

---

He walked like he owned the world.

Not arrogantly, not the way Calista had walked across the courtyard, claiming everything her eyes touched. Differently. He walked like the world had been placed at his feet whether he wanted it there or not, and he had simply... accepted it.

Crown Prince Cassian.

The man whose father had destroyed my family.

The man I had sworn to destroy.

He was taller than I expected. Broad-shouldered, with dark hair that fell across his forehead in careless waves, as if he had run his fingers through it one too many times. His jaw was sharp, shadowed with the faintest hint of stubble, with his lips full and seductive. His eyes… they were beautiful.

His eyes were the color of sapphire.

His gaze a startling blue brilliance, vivid and intense and they seemed to glow in the dimness of the hall. They swept across the hall, across the clusters of girls, the bowing courtiers, the servants pressed against the walls, and I felt them land on me.

For one heartbeat, two and then three.

His gaze held mine.

I should have looked away. Should have dropped my eyes, curtsied, pretended to be the meek, grateful noblewoman I was pretending to be.

But I couldn't.

Because looking at him, really looking at him—l, made something twist in my chest. Hate, maybe. Or something worse.

This is the man, I thought. The son of the man who killed my father.

The heir to the throne that destroyed my family.

He was my enemy.

But he was also…

Beautiful. The word surfaced before I could stop it. Not soft. Not gentle. Beautiful in the way a storm was beautiful. Unpredictable. Capable of destroying everything in its path.

His coat was black, fitted, embroidered with silver thread that caught the torchlight. The collar was high, almost severe, and it framed his face like a painting. His hand. I noticed his hands, were large, the fingers long, the knuckles scarred.

Fighter's hands, I thought. He's killed people with those hands.

Maybe even people like my father.

His gaze moved on.

Passed over me like I was nothing.

And I felt…  Rage.

How dare he look at me like I'm nothing?

How dare he…