The unmarked brides went first, lesser houses, daughters chosen later or not chosen at all but permitted to attempt the trial for honor’s sake. Sabine watched them cross and learned the structure fast.
Petitioners stationed along the causeway’s length called out questions timed to land when the bride reached them. Guards flanked the path close enough to narrow it further, their presence creating physical pressure without open threat. Nobles in the lower galleries added their voices when a question landed particularly well, amplifying humiliation into performance.
One girl stumbled at the third questioning. Another answered too quickly and gave the room an opening they exploited for the rest of her walk. A third made it to the threshold but arrived pale and shaking, her dignity intact only in the technical sense.
Then the marked brides were called.
Brinna went first among them.
She stepped onto the causeway and made it three paces before the first question struck.
“Lady Brinna Sere. Your house holds land through your mother’s line, does it not?”
Brinna’s voice came thin. “Yes.”
“And your father, he married into Sere rather than bringing a name of his own?”
“Yes.”
“How convenient. Tell us, does House Sere consider daughters more valuable than sons, or did your parents simply lack better options?”
Brinna froze.
The gallery leaned forward. Sabine could see the girl’s shoulders lock, her breathing stop, her entire body seize under the weight of public scrutiny and the question’s casual cruelty.
Move, Sabine thought. Just move.
Brinna forced herself forward. Another step. Another. But her hands shook so badly the bell at her wrist rang constantly, a tiny betrayal with every movement. By the time she reached the threshold, she looked ready to shatter.
Tavi went next.
She walked faster than the others, as if speed could carry her past the worst of it. It could not. The questions found her anyway.
“Lady Tavi Rennic. House Rennic survives by bleeding on command, does it not? How many of your uncles died in service to lords who did not bother learning their names?”
Tavi’s jaw locked. “Service is not shame.”
“No? Then why does your mother send you here instead of her sons? Surely a military house values its men more than its spare daughters.”
Tavi stopped walking. Her hands curled into fists. For one suspended instant Sabine thought she would turn and strike the petitioner outright.
Then she forced herself forward again, moving by rage rather than composure, finishing the crossing through sheer refusal to give them the satisfaction of watching her break.
Yselle crossed like a woman performing a rehearsed dance.
Every question received an answer precise enough to satisfy form and empty enough to deny leverage. When asked about Marrow’s recent borrowing, she replied that prudent houses managed liquidity through strategic partnerships. When pressed about her lack of brothers, she said that strong daughters often proved more useful than weak sons. The court could not touch her. She had armored herself in language so polished it reflected attack back as elegance.
She reached the threshold without a single misstep.
Then Halvine called Sabine’s name.
The causeway stretched ahead like a blade laid flat.
Sabine stepped onto the black stone and felt the room’s full attention lock onto her. Every eye. Every breath. The galleries had been entertained by the earlier crossings, but this was different. She was the first chosen. The marked daughter. The one Lucien had selected before anyone the court considered worthy.
They wanted to see her fail.
The first petitioner stood three paces in. An older woman in formal gray, her face arranged in false concern.
