Finally, the one at the far end is a little shorter than the first but taller than the rest. His onyx hair is short, some strands falling carelessly across his brow. It’s slightly messy, though not enough to look unkempt—just enough to seem natural. His clothes are plain. He doesn’t carry the polish of a noble’s son orthe roughness of a soldier. He looks ordinary, almost. But he isn’t. I’m not sure why, but I feel drawn to him. My shadows stir beneath my skin, restless, reaching for him like they’ve caught a familiar scent.
No. Not here. Not now.
I force them down, yanking the threads of magic back into silence. They resist, sliding across the polished table, like restless pets, trying to get to their owner. One of the high lords frowns, his sharp eyes narrowing. Heat rushes to my cheeks as I jerk the shadows back, internally scolding them.
“My apologies,” I say, voice steady.
The curly-haired one grins as though nothing could faze him. “Don’t be sorry, Princess. You can devour me with your shadows any time.”
I blink, caught off guard by his boldness. A small laugh escapes me before I can stop it. His grin widens, victorious.
Across the table, the man my shadows were reaching for is watching. His golden gaze fixes on me, sharp and unyielding, as though he’s already trying to see straight through me. An eyebrow arches slightly, almost in challenge.
Something in me rises to meet it. I lift my chin, refusing to look away.
The tension breaks when the stoic one clears his throat, surprising me by being the first to introduce himself. “It’s an honor to meet you, Princess Serenya. I am Aren Witfield, a soldier from Virid.” His voice is low, gruff, but there’s a warmth beneath it that softens the words.
I incline my head. “It’s very nice to meet you, Aren.”
One by one, the others follow.
“Asbel Steele,” says the one with dark locks, his tone measured. “I serve as a commander of the guard in Eastmarsh. It’s an honor.”A commander.I almost smile to myself. I was close.
“Osric Iver,” murmurs the freckled one. His voice is quieter than I expect, but it carries. “I’m from the southern woodlands.”
“Aleric Thornfield,” the blond one says with a gentle smile. “I’ve studied healing in the capital most of my life. I’d be glad to help with your court’s needs, Princess.”
The curly-haired one leans forward, flashing that grin again. “Lioran. I’m here to make sure you don’t fall asleep at dinner.”
Several of the high lords scowl at his insolence, but I can’t stop my lips from twitching.
Finally, my gaze returns to the one at the end who remains silent.
“And you?” My voice softens despite myself.
He doesn’t rise. Doesn’t bow. He simply says, “Koen.”
Nothing else.
I wait. “…Where are you from?”
“Zea's Hollow.” The words are clipped, almost a grunt.
“And…what do you do?” It’s a struggle to keep the irritation out of my voice.
“Run a tavern.”
I hum, studying him. “I see.”
His eyes narrow. “Is there a problem, Your Highness?”
I open my mouth to respond. Maybe to tell him off for being disrespectful, but before I can form a reply, my motherrises, her red gown shimmering in the torchlight.
“Tonight,” she begins, her voice smooth and resonant, carrying to every corner, “we welcome the six chosen to stand in the Trials of the Fated. You were not picked by whim nor by chance. Each of you has been marked by your deeds, your courage, or the favor of fate itself. Now, before gods and men, you will prove if you are worthy.”
“One of you,” my mother continues, “will rise not only as victor, but as consort to my daughter, the heir to the throne. That bond is not a prize lightly won. It is responsibility. It is legacy. You will not only carry her hand, but her kingdom, her people, and her very bloodline. If you fail to understand that, you will fail entirely.”
My mother’s gaze finds me at last, and for the briefest instant, her eyes soften before hardening again. “Do not mistake this feast for your enjoyment. This is the beginning of your proving. Watch how you speak. Even tonight, you are being judged.”
