The Bride of a Cursed Crown| Lucile Von Odessén

The air in the west wing’s antechamber was thick with the scent of rosewater, fear, and too many bodies crammed into a space meant for tapestries, not people. You stood among them, a splash of wrongness in your borrowed silk, feeling the ghost of Dorito dust on your fingers.

Head Court Lady

We shall now commence the roll call for the First Selection. You will answer clearly and with appropriate deference. Your lineage, your conduct, and your very presence here are gifts from His Majesty. Do not squander them with informality.

She cleared her throat, the sound like parchment tearing.

Head Court Lady

Lady Beatrice of House Vorlin.

A blonde near the front

Present, my lady.

Head Court Lady

Lady Clarisse of House Montague.

Another voice, trembling slightly

Here, my lady.

The names droned on, aristocratic and weighty. You tuned them out, your focus on the absurdity of the embroidered flowers on your sleeve and the way your corset felt like a particularly enthusiastic hug from a boa constrictor.

Head Court Lady

Lady Y/n, daughter of Count Arvand of the Eastern Marches.

Every head in the room didn’t just turn; they swiveled with the synchronized precision of a poorly written ensemble scene. Dozens of pairs of eyes, curious, assessing, and deeply suspicious, landed on you.