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I stand before the imposing wooden doors of the Great Hall and am surprised to find I'm not as nervous as I thought I would be.

I've been dreading this day for months, ever since the end of the last Harvesting back in spring.

A small part of me hopes this Harvesting is successful and some of the lords who have put themselves forward as prospective suitors are found to be suitable.

This is the queen part of me, who wishes to do right by her people.

However, the woman part of me hopes they all fail, and I am not left having to choose one of them as my future king.

I have received each lord in turn over the past few days, except for Greythorne, and one has proven as obnoxious as the next, with each one being cocksure they will pass the test of male virility that is the Harvesting, to become my future king.

Greythorne, however, proved to be the most cocksure of all, believing he was above the Harvesting and didn't need to pass any test to be considered as a prospective suitor. I can only imagine the brutal amount of pressure and threats that were levelled against him by his family to cajole him into coming here today. It’s been some years since I last saw him, but the cruel twist of his face from our last meeting is still imprinted on my mind.

I shudder at the prospect that he may pass the test and prove to be my only choice.

There is another way…

The words from my dream sound in my mind and I squeeze the moonstone tighter in the palm of my hand.

The trumpets sound, as the fanfare to announce my entrance begins.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes. An image of the rugged warrior appears in my mind’s eye and his words sound in my ears, “You are a queen. You are powerful, and you shall take what you need. Have no fear. Embrace your power.”

A feeling of strength ripples through me and, as the doors open, I raise my chin and fix the most regal expression on my face that I can muster.

I put one foot in front of the other and slowly make my way through the assembled lords and ladies towards my throne.

I don’t look either side of me and make eye contact with no-one.

However, I spy each of my suitors and their respective entourages from the side of my eye.

They are placed in order of their perceived importance within the Highborne families and Ardvallan society, with the most important at the top of the Great Hall, nearest the throne, and the least important closest to the doors.

Of course, importance is made up of many different factors, such as wealth, heritage, power, and how dangerous a family or person within that family is deemed to be.

I'm wise enough to know that despite where they stand within today’s pecking order, their true standings, whether in terms of their political connections or how much they are feared, should not be overlooked.

I proceed to the dais, in the centre of which is my throne.

My ladies arrange my gown and I sit. I've chosen a gown of silver silk and black velvet, as I feel the occasion is not exactly a cause for celebration for me and I wish for my clothing to project my mood, which can best be described as sombre.

Atop my head is the Dorchú Crown made of white gold with a large oval shaped piece of Raven's Eye gemstone as its centrepiece.

According to legend, the Dorchú Crown was crafted centuries ago by a master craftsman who infused the gold with fae blood.

It is said to bestow special powers of insight upon those who wear it.

I'm hoping this particular legend is true and the crown won't let me down today, as I believe I will need all my wits about me and every scrap of intuition and insight to get me through to sunset.

The trumpets cease and the Grand Master rises from his seat beside me.

"Lords and ladies, sirs and gentlemen, and the good gentlefolk of Ardvalla, I welcome you to the court of Queen Elinor today for the Harvesting ceremony. We especially welcome those lords who have submitted themselves for the Harvesting and who wish to be considered as suitable suitors for the hand of the queen. Each esteemed lord is held in high regard by the Grand Council and the queen herself, but of course their suitability depends on how they fare here today.” He pauses his slimy voiced soliloquy just long enough to deliver a twisted smile to the room, looking at each lord in turn and bestowing a conspiratorial look on his nephew, the fishlike Lord Crottingham.

I shudder at the prospect of them having cooked up something between them and wonder if they have somehow pre-empted the ceremony.

Do they know with certainty that Lord Crottingham is suitable?

Or is something more sinister going on? Has the Grand Master somehow intervened to make sure his nephew succeeds?

I squeeze the moonstone tight in the palm of my hand and feel a sense of comfort move through me.

No, a voice sounds inside my head, trust in the process. Your grandmother made it so the Harvesting is foolproof. Nobody can cheat it.

I think back to my grandmother and how different it was for her when she created the Harvesting.

She had been smart enough to know it was only a matter of time before what was happening in general Ardvallan society would affect the Highborne families and the monarchy.

So, to prevent the possibility of any future queen from marrying a potentially infertile mate, she created the Harvesting, the process whereby prospective suitors must submit their seed to see if it is viable or not.

If it is not, then they cannot be considered as a suitable marriage prospect for the queen.

This was all very well for my grandmother, as matters weren’t at such a crisis point when it came time for her to select a husband and she ended up with twenty suitors.

The possibility of her finding a true and lasting love from the twenty was significantly greater than that of my mother who ended up with five.

Thankfully, one of them happened to be her true love and they enjoyed a long and happy union.

However, I am left in the precarious position where, so far, none of the Highborne Lords have passed the test and with the distinct possibility that I may be left with only one potential suitor.

This would mean, in the absence of any other options, he would have a clear run to the throne and my bed.

May the gods help me, but as much as I wish to do right by my realm, I can’t bear the thought of having to lie with any of the pathetic specimens currently lined up in front of me.

Perhaps I’m being too hard on them, I muse, and take a quick glance down at the assembled lords and their entourages.

Closest to me on my left is the very overdressed Lord Sutton.

The Sutton family don’t have the largest or most abundant lands, but they are very strategically placed, with one mountain pass in particular being quite lucrative.

Travellers and traders can either choose to descend the mountain and cross into the neighbouring realms via the lowland crossings, or simply pay tithes to the Suttons to use the mountain pass and continue on their way.

There are rumours the pass is a favourite of those who may be in a hurry to get from one realm to another or who might be transporting goods of a rare or possibly illegal nature.

I suspect the tithes are somewhat higher in these cases, which would explain the significant wealth of the Suttons.

The eldest son, Lord Henry Sutton, is being presented to me today as a prospective suitor for my hand.

One thing about the Suttons is they don’t believe in hiding their wealth, and he is bedecked in a confection of blue and gold frills and brocade of the finest silks that I’m sure were acquired from the most prominent fashion houses in Sipar.

His brown hair falls in styled ringlets around his face, and if I’m not mistaken, his blue eyes have been ever so slightly enhanced with eye pencil.

I have no doubt he thinks himself most suave and fashionable and, from the look of disdain on his face, far more sophisticated and superior to the other lords.

However, to me, he looks like an insufferable fop.

To the right is Lord Gosford. The little bit of hair he has left is slicked across the top of his bald head, the dark tendrils giving the impression he has been mauled across the top of his bare pate by a wild mountain cat.

His grey, lifeless eyes are as dull as ever, and the mud like hues of his garments don't help the overall impression he exudes of being the most boring man here.

Unfortunately, he is also one of the richest, which, despite his paunch and balding head, he believes makes him quite the catch.

He's about ten years older than all my other prospective suitors and has already been married.

The union failed to produce a child and he promptly divorced his wife after a year.

The fact that she went on to marry again, albeit to a man of much lower social standing, and bear a son to her second husband, has not deterred him from presenting himself here today.

He obviously believes, despite clear evidence to the contrary, the fault for his childless marriage lies with his ex-wife and couldn't possibly have anything to do with him.

It seems his lack of personality is only outmatched by the size of his ego.