Derick smirked. "Why?" he asked
"I want to be your Crown Princess," Vyselle said. "I know you—what you've been through, what you want. It should be me."
He raised a brow. "You think knowing me—or sharing a few nights—makes you worthy to rule beside me?"
She didn't flinch. "Yes."
Derick chuckled, cold and eyes sparkling with amusement "That's bold, he complimented with a hint of sarcasm. But I'd love to see you try."
It hit her like a poisoned arrow, but she held her ground.
He's in pain, she reminded herself. So I should be, too.
Soon, she would feel everything.
And she would enjoy it. She reminded herself ––she needed to squash some ladies.
---
The sun rose over the castle like a blade unsheathed—sharp, blinding, and merciless. Servants rushed across the courtyards, banners were unfurled from the highest spires, and the halls buzzed with the tremble of footsteps.
Today, the contest would begin.
Princesses from distant kingdoms gathered in silks and silences. Some wore practiced smiles; others wielded their beauty like daggers. All of them had one thing in common: they were here to win.
In the far west wing, Eira stirred beneath the sheets, the weight of the day already pressing against her chest. She had no intention of winning—but the game had begun, and she was now a piece on the board.
Eira, meanwhile, had decided she would rather spontaneously combust.
She cracked one eye open to the sound of distant horns and muffled excitement. Unfortunately, she was still alive.
Moments later, a maid crept into the room like an apologetic ghost. "Princess Eira?" she whispered. "They're asking for you in the Hall of Petal Curtains. It's time for—"
"Nope," Eira mumbled from beneath the covers. "Tell them I'm dead. Or cursed. Or both."
A second, bolder maid entered with a dress the size of a small tent. "My lady, the opening ceremony! His Majesty and Her Highness are already seated!"
That got Eira to peek out, groggy and resentful. "Do I get executed if I don't show?"
"…Not officially," the maid replied, clearly having rehearsed that answer.
"Then I suppose I'll go and wave at my doom."
She groaned, dragging a pillow over her face. "Tell the robes I'm grieving."
Still, she rose.
Half an hour later, she stepped into the southern courtyard surrounded by blooming white lilies and the humming buzz of nerves. She recognized a few of the girls—smiling, poised, their eyes darting like hunting birds. If elegance was a weapon, some of these princesses wielded it with deadly precision.
---
The Courtyard Chaos
An hour and several angry hairpins later, Eira stood among thirty-nine other contestants, dressed in a sky-blue gown that itched her spine and shoes that actively hated her. Her hair had been braided into a crown so tight her thoughts had limited circulation.
She didn't smile. She didn't curtsy. She didn't even stand up straight.
"Look lively, Princess," someone beside her whispered. A girl with sharp cheekbones and a serpent-smile.
Eira gave her a glance. "I am lively. This is my lively face."
A trumpet blared.
The Queen's advisor, Chancellor Wyn, appeared on a raised platform, flanked by armored guards. "Welcome, daughters of the realm," he announced, voice echoing through the marble courtyard. "Today, your first task begins."
Murmurs rose.
Then she saw him.
That––that annoying fang boy. What the hell is he doing here?
Eira's eye twitched.
He glanced down, caught her gaze—and smirked.
Smirk.
Eira scowled so hard her tiara tilted.
Looking away, she crossed her arms, only half-listening to the next announcement. Her brain had short-circuited somewhere between fang boy and why is he here again.
---
The First Task
A moderator in velvet robes descended the steps with exaggerated grace, holding a scroll that shimmered faintly under the sun.
"Today's task is simple," he declared. "A game to test your wit, charm, and ability to not faint in the sun."
Some contestants tittered politely. Eira rolled her eyes.
"You will each be paired with a randomly chosen partner," the moderator continued. "And together, you must complete one of the following mini-quests—chosen from the Box of Fate."
"You will be working in pairs."
Her stomach flipped.
"Each pair will complete a series of tests—both physical and mental," he added. "Today's challenge will require cooperation, cleverness, and... resilience. Your assigned partners have been selected in advance."
He gestured to an ornate box. It shimmered ominously like it held prophecies or punishments.
The crowd murmured.
"The winning pair will receive a favor from the Crown Prince himself."
Eira's stomach dropped. "Please let me get the most boring princess alive," she whispered. "Someone allergic to flirting."
The moderator reached into the box and began calling names.
One by one, pairs were matched.
"Princess Nyra of Tavalon and Princess Fayen of Andor!"
"Lady Renelle of the House of Cullen and Princess Mai of Cyprus!"
"Princess Eira of Elyria and—" he paused, brow furrowing as if second-guessing the scroll "—Derick of House Wynver."
She tensed.
Eira blinked. "Derick of what?"
Not just her—but several heads turned. Murmurs buzzed.
Wasn't Derick the rumored name of the Crown Prince? And why was a man competing in a female contest?
She was thinking every thoughtable thought. Was this a joke? A trap? A royal prank?
Then a familiar, smug voice answered from behind her. "Don't look so disappointed. You could've ended up with someone who takes himself seriously."
She turned slowly.
There he was—the infuriating stable boy, or court fool, or whoever he was. The one she'd already snapped at twice this week. Still dressed like someone who couldn't care less, still wearing that glint in his eye like he enjoyed provoking her.
"You again?"
Then she remembered the whisper from the night before—one of the contestants had injured her ankle and was being replaced. But who would've thought the replacement would be him? The exact human embodiment of her patience limit.
"I'm as surprised as you are," he said, mock-bowing. "Truly, the stars must be drunk."