The morning light filtered through the sheer curtains of my chamber, scattering pale rays across the tiled floor like gold-dust threads. It was two days since the Celestial Salon's grand opening, and already, the palace was abuzz with whispers of its refinement and the transformations it produced.
I stood before my full-length mirror, letting my fingers graze the edges of the intricate hairstyle that had become the center of so many stares.
Ares had truly outdone himself.
My hair was swept up into an elaborate skywave twist, a tiered cascade of silken coils pinned high at the crown, mimicking the curling auroras found in Aerithian tapestries. Icy blue ribbons—dyed to match my signature brocade gown—were braided into the structure, intertwined with thin golden threads. Loose strands fell like painted strokes across my cheeks, not too carefully arranged, but enough to seem breezy and elegant. At the back, small pearl orbs dangled from hidden hooks, giving the illusion of stars twinkling with each movement of my head.
It wasn't just a hairstyle.
It was a declaration.
"Miss, you caught the attention of every noblewoman," Fiora murmured as she delicately retouched the rose-tint on my lips. Her voice was soft but amused, and I could tell she was proud of how far we had come.
"Well," I said with a smirk, "I might say that's good for Ares' business."
Fiora giggled, dipping the powder puff into the compact again. "You've made the Celestial Salon the talk of the palace. Lady Rebecca 's funding wasn't wasted."
Just then, the knock on my chamber door broke our chatter.
A palace messenger stood outside, draped in the traditional violet livery of the Crown's heralds. He bowed with crisp formality and held out a scroll sealed in red wax.
"For Lady Diana Swan. By order of the palace council, all lady candidates are summoned to the Meeting Hall for the official ranking announcement."
Ranking?
My hands instinctively tightened around the scroll. This wasn't expected.
"Is this... elimination?" I asked aloud, more to myself than to Fiora.
"I doubt it," Fiora said quickly, but her tone held the same nervous edge that crept into my own. "Still, we should prepare."
She guided me through the corridor with practiced grace, ensuring that my steps were deliberate and that my entrance, if witnessed, would be nothing less than royal. I felt my heart beat against my chest like a ceremonial drum, rhythmic and echoing with anticipation.
As we neared the central stairs, I spotted Rebecca already waiting for me at the foot. Her arms were folded, her stance crisp in a tailored navy bodice that suited her like a knight's armor. When our eyes met, she nodded once, sharply.
Her look was commanding.
Go first, it said.
And I obeyed.
The Meeting Hall was larger than most imagined. Though its doors were rarely open, it sat at the heart of the palace, lined with pointed arches and stained-glass windows that filtered colored light into patchwork tapestries on the floor. A row of candelabras illuminated the grand space, and an elevated dais stood at the front where announcements were traditionally made.
All around me, noblewomen were whispering.
About the rankings. About who might be cut. About me.
As I stepped through the open doors, conversations halted. Eyes turned. I felt their scrutiny like a blade, but I held my chin high, gliding forward as if I had no idea they were talking about me.
And then I saw him.
The Emcee of the event—or perhaps the Master of the Gathering, as they called it here—stood at the dais, holding a long parchment in one hand and a ceremonial staff in the other. He was tall and lean, clad in a half-modern, half-medieval ensemble: a deep green velvet jacket embroidered with silver threading, matching trousers tucked into dark leather boots, and a cravat the color of twilight. His dark hair was tied back, and a silver circlet rested on his brow—only worn during official state readings.
He tapped his staff once, and the room fell into reverent silence.
"By decree of the Crown and the Ladies' Court, the names of the ranked contenders in the Noble Ladies' Selection for Queen are as follows," he declared, his voice crisp, booming.
"Diana Swan — Rank One."
The room rippled with whispers.
My breath caught.
Fiora, who had quietly slipped in behind me, touched her fingers to her mouth. Rebecca's expression remained unreadable, though I caught the faintest lift of her chin. That was her version of a smile.
"Xyra Lee De Vera — Rank Two."
I looked across the hall and saw Xyra bow her head slightly. She was poised, as always, with a ribbon in her hair and a controlled expression. But her shoulders were stiffer than usual.
"Lady Helene Rivera — Rank Three."
"Lady Verra Montclair — Rank Four."
"Lady Amara del Fiore — Rank Five."
The list continued. In total, ten names were called.
"And these, dear nobles, are the ladies who will proceed to the next trial: The Festival of Pastimes, a demonstration of each lady's skill, wit, and personal hobbies. You will be evaluated not only by your talents but also by the grace with which you express yourself."
I nearly sighed.
It wasn't elimination—but it was another performance.
More eyes. More judgment.
More ways to fail.
The Emcee gave a bow, rolled up the scroll, and stepped down from the dais as servants began guiding us toward the adjoining hall where refreshments awaited.
As we exited, I felt a tug at my sleeve.
"Rank one," Xyra said in a voice tight with emotion. "Congratulations."
I turned to her, uncertain if she meant it. Her smile was polite but thin.
"Thank you," I replied, offering a nod.
"I suppose you've impressed everyone... but I wonder what you'll show them next," she said lightly before walking away.
I was too tired to decipher her tone. Fiora fell into step beside me, eyes flicking toward the backs of the other ladies.
"Did you hear the way they gasped when your name was called?" she whispered.
I nodded. "I heard it. And I felt it."
As I looked around the room, I could tell it wasn't admiration. Not fully. It was curiosity—sharp and biting—and the start of suspicion. Being number one made me a target.
The Festival of Pastimes would not be a simple embroidery show or baking contest. These events were meant to reveal our inner lives—who we were behind the fine dresses and practiced smiles.
And I had the most to hide.