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Does the Headservant know the real reason I don’t want to wait before greeting the Overking?

The closer I come, the more anxious I feel, and as I force each foot forward, feeling rigidity take over purpose, fear drying the inside of my mouth to a wasteland, I’m in the most dangerous battle of my life.

I barely notice the black and white marble floors that gleam like ice, the walls sheathed in the same material.

Nor do I stop to admire the towering statues of the former and first Overking Ranaslo of Protoris, the courtiers who stroll the halls, stopping to watch as I stride by.

The Headservant rushes on quick feet, rapidly leading the way, tsking and muttering to himself as he goes.

I’m a conundrum that he’s clearly unprepared for.

I’m fine with that.

It’s not until I glance to my right at last that I realize my guards are not with me and panic hits me hard in the gut. Why didn’t they follow? No doubt, they were told to remain, and I missed their absence out of preoccupation that I can’t afford.

Distracted, unacceptable. I am alone now, truly alone, in this place of bewildering splendor.

The palace interior is even more extravagant than the exterior.

Every pillar, every archway, is carved with intricate designs.

The air is thick with the scent of lilies and beeswax, so heavy it almost chokes me.

My eyes ache from the sheer opulence, my heart beating low and fast, pushing against my ribcage.

I stride past the throngs of courtiers lingering in the corridor, thicker the closer we come to the end of the hall.

Their silk robes rustle, their laughter light and tinkling, their whispers a constant, unsettling hum.

They part for me, their gazes curious, some disdainful, at the sight of my armor amidst their finery.

I am a warrior, not a doll, and I feel the unspoken judgment keenly.

We finally reach a pair of massive, gilded doors. The Headservant glances at my armor one last time, a shudder running through him, before he leans in and addresses an older man all in white silk, with a pointed beard and impressive moustache that twirls up toward his cheeks in fine threads.

“Her highness,” he growls, “the heir of Heald.” With that, he tosses his hands at me and hurries away.

No longer responsible for me, no doubt. I am satisfied with this turn of events, too.

Unlike the others I’ve encountered, the white-haired and clad man at the door simply bows his head to me before gesturing. The doors part as he clears his throat and speaks.

“All make welcome,” he booms, his voice surprisingly loud for his size, “her highness, Princess Remalla of Heald, Blade of Eritoch, Daughter of Jhanette the Bold.”

The fact that he knows my name and title shouldn’t surprise me, but it does, if only because I so rarely hear the full line this way. There are more bits and bobs, I think, acquired along the way, but it seems to suffice as is.

Inhaling, my knees not forsaking me yet, I step across the threshold like I know what I’m doing.

The Grand Audience Chamber looms vast, bathed in the soft glow of light filtering through immense stained-glass windows and the endless banks of candles some poor sot has to light, I realize, hovering overhead in massive chandeliers that glisten and gleam with glass and crystal to reflect the light.

The air here hums with a hushed reverence.

It’s a long walk past the noblemen and women in attendance, lining the long, blue carpet that runs the length of the space.

It feels empty here, anticipatory, but what are they waiting for I have no idea.

I do my best to simply pick the man on the golden throne and head for him without wavering.

I’ve never met or seen the Overking in person, though I know my mother has many times. In fact, she claims personal friendship with his father, our first Overking and has told me on many occasions that Gyster is nothing like the man his father was.

Whether that’s true or her own opinion, I find the memory irritating, frustrated that she’s in my head, distracting me while I try to focus. I reach the chamber without much effort or issue, though the watchful and whispering folk who observe are already tiresome.

Will I spend the rest of my life being watched and whispered about? Not something I’m looking forward to.

Two thrones sit on a raised dais, the larger of the pair front and center, the smaller to one side and a foot or so reduced in height but still impressive for such a seat.

I note a gap between them, as though another should occupy the space.

Is that where the Overqueen should sit? Why no throne?

It’s empty instead, but the gap not co-opted by the others, either.

It looks awkward to me and uncomfortable, like distance stands between the Overking and his heir.

Is that gap an invitation to take that place someday?

I can’t even imagine.

Overking Gyster watches me from his throne, sitting casually, gold crown firmly planted in his graying blond hair, full beard making him harder to read.

But he doesn’t seem antagonistic to me, his posture and gesture of welcome seemingly genuine, and I bow to him as I know is proper before speaking.

“Your Overmajesty,” I say. “I bring greetings to you from my mother. Queen Jhanette wishes you great health and prosperity.”

He shifts inside his robes of deep blue and gold, lips pursing.

He looks older than I expected, his face stern, blue eyes sharp.

Beside him, across that gap that feels like miles, the second, smaller throne is vacant, presumably for the Overprince.

My heart thuds once. Can my future husband not spare a moment for our meeting?

My stomach clenches, a mix of apprehension and a strange, grudging acceptance settling around me.

“Greetings and welcome, daughter of Heald,” the Overking says in a surprising tenor that’s polished and kind. I hadn’t expected kindness. “Your ride was uneventful?”

I nod, motion catching my attention as I do, a small cluster of women hurrying forward to take their places on the right.

They arrange themselves in rows, though their hierarchy is beyond my knowledge.

I can’t help but note they are all as exquisitely dressed in silks and jewels as any lady here, their eyes locked on me, expressions bound to varying degrees of eagerness, nerves, and calculation.

Whispering. I’m so tired of the whispering.

“Thank you, Your Overmajesty,” I hear myself speaking, though I’ve not willed the words to come. “It was.”

“Excellent,” he says. “And thank you, Princess Remalla, for presenting yourself upon your arrival. We appreciate your sense of duty.” If that’s a jab at my present attire or the fact that I now distinctly smell myself, he doesn’t show it.

Did he mean it, then? I’m so lost, unable to read anyone in the room.

I would rather be on a different kind of battlefield.

“I’m sure your contemporaries will be happy to guide you to the Princess wing,” the Overking says. “Let’s reconvene and discuss the current state of affairs in Heald when you’ve had time to settle into your new accommodations.”

Contemporaries? The women who watch me exchange more murmurs and a few giggles, looking me up and down. But the one in the lead, in the prime position in front and closest to the throne dais, bobs a graceful curtsy to the Overking.

“It is our honor and pleasure,” she says, flashing dimples, the tiny blonde turning to me. “Your highness,” she says in a light voice, gesturing as she turns. “If you would, please?”

I hesitate. I don’t know what to expect, and I left Gorgon in the courtyard, planted in place. I will not abandon him.

But everyone is watching, and it won’t hurt him to stand a little longer.

Tension carries me carefully, my footsteps no longer making a sound as I follow the first of the women who addressed me as court carries on now that we’re leaving.

As one of the others whispers at me on the way by. “The baths are this way.”

And giggles.

Duly noted.

It’s not until we pass beyond a doorway behind the thrones that I look around, take in the chamber on the other side, the chattering women who join me. Twelve of them, each wearing colors and badges.

“Kingdoms,” I say out loud, frowning as I realize what their badges mean. “You’re all…”

The blonde leader turns back and flashes me those dimples of hers. “Princesses of the Overkingdom,” she says. “Yes, that’s right. You’re…one of us.”

But she doesn’t realize that I’m floored by this reveal. Wait, someone mentioned something. The guard at the main gate. I hadn’t had time to process.

Twelve other princesses.

Another one, eh? The Overprince has his pick of the litter .

My feet falter, my rigid control lost. My eyes dart from one beautiful, perfectly made up face to another, then back to the blonde who wears the badge of Sarn. She’s still smiling.

“You seem surprised, Remalla,” she says. “Wait, did you think you were the only one?”

I can’t comment, can’t breathe. What is this? What has my mother done to me?

“You’re not special,” one of the other women mutters, though the Sarn princess silences her with a wave.

“Like the rest of us,” the blonde says in that same soft, light tone, “you are here to vie for the Overprince’s hand.” She gestures at herself and then the other beautifully dressed princesses.

My mother’s cunning, her twisted ambition, her carefully crafted vision of my “glory” suddenly shatters into a million pieces. Marry the Overprince? No, of course, it’s not that easy. What of my mother’s schemes ever is?

I’m here to compete for him. Compete with twelve other women, all of whom are likely far more adept at this courtly dance than I, the warrior in dusty, well-used armor.

The scent of lilies suddenly suffocates me, a sweet, cloying trap.

Shame, humiliation, and a burning, cold fury war within me.

My mother hasn’t sent me here for the glory or rise of Heald.

No, she’s sent me here for a contest, a spectacle.

And I am utterly, hopelessly, unprepared.

Chest tight, rage brewing as understanding wakes, I land on the only choice that makes any sense at all.

“Fuck this shit,” I snarl. Then I spin without another word and stride away.