Chapter 7: The Selection

The palace doors groaned open, tall enough to swallow the entire crowd of carriages at once, wide enough for armies to march through. Everleigh stepped hesitantly across the threshold, the soles of her worn shoes clicking against a floor polished so brightly she almost saw herself reflected in the marble. The sound echoed, swallowed up by high ceilings, chandeliers dripping with crystal, and tapestries depicting kings whose eyes seemed to follow her every move.

Around her, the other girls poured inside, their chatter swelling into a nervous hum. Some clutched one another’s hands as though they might drown in the sheer enormity of the space, while others lifted their chins, their gowns whispering with self-assurance, already imagining themselves at home among gilded halls.

Everleigh’s breath caught in her throat. She had never seen such wealth—not in paintings, not even in dreams. The palace smelled faintly of roses and candle wax, and the air itself felt heavy, saturated with history and power.

A voice boomed from the staircase.

“Welcome, chosen daughters of the realm.”

A tall man in black robes descended, each step measured, his eyes cool and assessing. His hair was streaked with gray, his face carved with lines not of age, but of severity. At his side, a young attendant trailed with parchment and ink, scribbling furiously.

“You stand,” the man continued, “on the threshold of destiny. The lottery has brought you here, but it is not chance that will keep you here. From seventy, only one may rise to the crown. The rest—” he let the word hang, dangerous and unfinished, “—will return home… or will not.”

A hush fell so deep Everleigh thought she could hear her own heartbeat.

The man gave a shallow bow. “I am Chancellor Marlowe. I will oversee your Selection. You will be tested—your minds, your manners, your beauty, your… suitability. Every breath you take here will be observed, weighed, and judged. Those unfit will be dismissed. Quickly.”

His eyes raked across them, pausing almost imperceptibly when they found Everleigh.

She shifted uneasily, tugging at the sleeve of her faded blue dress. She should not stand out, not here where standing out was dangerous. And yet, she felt exposed, as though she were the only one truly naked in the room.

“Follow,” Marlowe ordered.

They were herded down a corridor so long the end seemed to vanish into haze. Guards flanked them, armored and faceless, and Everleigh had the uncanny sense of being cattle driven into a pen. A few of the girls whispered behind fans or sleeves; others walked stiffly, already posturing as princesses.

Everleigh scanned the crowd instinctively, still searching for Rowan though she knew it was hopeless. He had not come to walk her to the lottery, and he was not here now. That absence felt like a hollow ache inside her chest.

They entered a vast chamber lined with tables. At each table sat stern-looking scribes, quills poised, inkpots ready.

“The first measure,” Marlowe said, voice echoing. “Intellect.”

A ripple of unease swept through the group. Some shifted proudly into seats; others glanced at one another in wide-eyed panic.

Everleigh slid into a chair at the far end, her palms damp. A sheet of parchment was placed before her. At the top, ornate letters spelled out: Evaluation One: Knowledge and Reasoning.

Questions followed—history of the kingdom, sums and figures, riddles designed to twist the mind. Everleigh swallowed hard. She had studied only scraps where she could, borrowed fragments of lessons from Rowan when he had time to share.

Think. Remember.

She bent to the page, ink scratching, forcing her hand not to shake. Around her, quills raced or faltered. One girl, raven-haired and regal in posture, finished half the sheet in a single confident sweep, lips curled with superiority. Another chewed her lip so raw she left a smear of blood on her parchment.

Time passed in suffocating silence.

At last, the scribes collected the tests, slipping them into leather folders. Everleigh’s heart pounded as hers was carried away, her effort sealed into judgment.

“Stand,” Marlowe commanded.

The girls obeyed, skirts rustling.

“The second measure—comportment.”

Doors opened at the far end, revealing a hall of mirrors. Attendants beckoned them forward. Everleigh stepped inside and nearly staggered. Mirrors lined every wall, tall and merciless, reflecting her from every angle. She saw herself multiplied a hundred times over—her pale hair glinting under the light, her plain dress too simple against the gowns of the others.

A woman with severe cheekbones and a ledger approached, eyes sweeping Everleigh up and down. She murmured to her assistant, who jotted notes.

“Turn.”

Everleigh obeyed. Heat burned her cheeks. It wasn’t just clothing they judged; it was posture, carriage, the subtle ease of privilege she had never learned.

Nearby, another girl laughed softly, flipping her glossy dark hair as the attendants circled her approvingly. The sound made Everleigh’s stomach tighten.

When her turn ended, Everleigh fled the mirrors, her reflection still clinging to her vision like a ghost.

But there was no rest.

“The third measure,” Marlowe’s voice carried again, “is health.”

They were led into a smaller chamber partitioned with screens. Healers in white robes moved briskly, examining, checking pulses, peering into eyes. Quiet words of “fertility,” “strength,” and “virginity” drifted like shadows through the room. Some girls blanched; others tried to laugh it off, though their voices wavered.

Everleigh sat rigid as gentle but impersonal hands checked her. Her mind buzzed, shame prickling her skin though nothing inappropriate occurred. She wanted to disappear.

When it ended, she stumbled back into the main hall, throat tight.

Hours passed. Tests blurred together—penmanship, etiquette drills, even balancing books upon their heads while walking across polished floors. Some faltered and were dismissed on the spot, gasps echoing as they were ushered out, their chance at the crown gone in an instant.

From seventy, the group thinned. Everleigh counted in her head—sixty, fifty-eight, fifty-four…

Each dismissal made her stomach clench tighter.

At last, when exhaustion hung like a shroud, Marlowe dismissed them to a grand chamber filled with long tables set for supper.

“Rest,” he intoned. “Tomorrow will cut deeper.”

Everleigh sank into a chair, her body aching, her mind reeling. She picked at food she barely tasted, her eyes wandering.

And then she saw him.

Across the hall, near the shadows, stood the man in the mask—the same one from the lottery square. He wore dark clothing trimmed with silver, far finer than any attendant’s uniform. His mask covered his nose and eyes, but she felt his gaze, sharp as a blade, trained solely on her.

Her breath caught. Why was he here? Who was he?

For a heartbeat, the room seemed to fade until only the two of them existed—her, trembling and confused, and him, unreadable, unyielding.

And then he turned, vanishing into the crowd of officials.

Everleigh’s pulse refused to steady. She gripped her goblet tightly, whispering to herself as though the words might anchor her.

Survive. Just survive.

But deep inside, she knew survival was no longer the only thing at stake.