The music playing in the Hanging Gardens of the Palace changed tempo. From a rhythm that flowed gently like a river, it shifted to a firm beat, as if signaling that the opening act was over and the main act was about to begin.

  Rhea Ashart had just managed to escape the clutches of small talk with the Duchess of Rosemary about the price of imported silkworm silk. She stood near the buffet table, pretending to be very interested in the shrimp tower display, while her eyes kept watching the nearest exit.

  "The shrimp aren't going anywhere, Rhea," whispered Henesa, suddenly appearing beside her, holding a glass of wine. "But you look like you want to run away."

  "These shoes are killing me," Mira murmured. "And Lysandra's gaze is starting to feel hot on my back. I swear she's casting a curse to make my hair fall out."

  Henesa chuckled politely, covering her mouth with a fan. "Hold on for one more hour. After the King's speech, we can go home and..."

  Suddenly, a sound erupted that resembled an explosion.

  The sound did not come from the orchestra. It was the roar of thunder. The starry night sky over Everiven suddenly split apart with a flash of bluish-white light. It was not the warm light of the sun, but a sharp, cold, high-energy electric light.

  Hundreds of guests flinched. Glasses clinked.

  On the main balcony of the palace, atop the marble stairs overlooking the garden, Prince Alren stood. He no longer looked like the friendly prince who had pinned a flower in Mira's hair earlier. The aura around him changed drastically. Static electricity made his golden hair stand on end. His blue eyes blazed—not sky blue, but electric arc blue.

  He looked like the incarnation of a storm. The element of Lightning.

  "Your attention, citizens of Asnaven and honored guests!" King Maren's voice boomed, amplified by a voice spell. The King stood beside his son, his face serious yet proud.

  The music stopped completely. A tense silence fell over the hanging garden.

  "Tonight is not just an ordinary tea banquet," the King continued. "Tonight marks the beginning of a new era for the Runerre bloodline."

  King Maren patted Alren on the shoulder.

  "Crown Prince Alren has reached the age of nineteen. His training as a Border General is now complete. Now, it is time for him to take on the responsibility of ensuring the continuity of this dynasty."

  Mira felt Dalt tense at her right side. Henesa, on her left, squeezed her fan a little tighter. A bad premonition lit up in Mira, as if shouting: Trap.

  Prince Alren stepped forward. He smiled, but the smile was sharp. Like lightning before thunder.

  "Thank you, Father." His voice was calm, yet carried an electric vibration that made everyone's hair stand on end. "I have traveled throughout the kingdom. I have seen the strength, beauty, and potential of our people."

  Alren looked at the crowd of nobles beneath him.

  "However, a King cannot rule alone. He needs a Queen. A partner who is not only beautiful, but also has the strength to stand in the storm with him."

  Whispers began to rise like the sound of panicked bees. Noble mothers started nervously fixing their daughters' hair. Fathers began calculating political assets.

  “Therefore,” Alren continued, raising his hand, “I have decided to begin the selection process for the Royal Consort.”

  He didn’t point at anyone randomly. He snapped his fingers.

  Three small lightning orbs shot from the tips of his fingers, floating down into the garden, swirling above the crowd like deadly fireflies.

  “I have chosen three candidates,” announced Alren. “Three extraordinary women, each representing the aspect I am looking for. I will announce the final decision next week, precisely as the New Year’s bell rings.”

  The first lightning orb shot toward the right wing of the garden, where the foreign delegates were seated. The orb stopped and burst into sparks over the head of a young girl.

  “First Candidate,” Alren shouted. “Princess Elodie de Valois of the Kingdom of Vsnava.”

  All eyes were on the girl. Elodie stood with a grace that was different from the Asnaven nobility. She wore an ivory silk dress with a tight navy blue corset. Her pale blonde hair was styled in an elegant loose updo, with a few fine strands deliberately left to frame the sides of her face, giving a natural yet graceful impression. Her face was as beautiful as a porcelain doll, but her crystal blue eyes were piercing yet had a dreamy softness. She curtsied with movements so practiced that it looked like a dance. The Vsnava kingdom was a powerful neighbor, known for its heavy cavalry and high cultural arts. This alliance was purely political.

  The second lightning ball shot towards the center, passing over the tables of the High Nine families. The ball stopped at the table of a middle-ranking noble family (Baronet). It burst over a brown-haired girl who looked so shocked that she dropped her fork.

  “Second Candidate,” Alren’s voice softened. “Lady Iva of Joenvaa. My loyal childhood friend.”

  Iva was not from The High Nine. She had played with Alren before royal duties separated them. The girl was sweet, simple, with wide, frightened eyes. She had no political power, but she had a personal history with the Prince. A sentimental choice. The “Love of the People” choice.

  Mira let out a relieved sigh. Politics and Past Love. Good. I’m safe. She even started taking another shrimp, ready to watch this drama from the sidelines as an uninvolved spectator.

  However, the third lightning ball was still hovering. The ball spun around in the middle of the room, as if confused. Or as if it were playing around. It hummed loudly.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  The ball shot forward. Fast. Aggressive. It headed straight for Ashart's table.

  Mira froze. The shrimp in her hand fell back onto her plate. The lightning ball stopped right in front of her face. It was only a hand's breadth away from Mira's nose. She could smell the sharp ozone. She could feel the static electricity tugging at the fine hairs on her head.

  The ball gently exploded into a shower of blue light particles that rained down on Mira's shoulders.

  "And the Third Candidate," Alren's voice sounded satisfied, full of triumph. "Rhea Ashart. A newly bloomed flower."

  Silence. Absolute silence. Much quieter than when the Prince spoke.

  Henesa was pale. The wine glass in Dalt's hand cracked due to his too-strong grip. At the next table, Lukas choked on his drink. At the back table, Lysandra's face changed from angry red to purple in disbelief.

  Mira didn't move. His brain is unable to manage what is happening, as if experiencing a short circuit. What? Me? Why?

  Mira looked up at the balcony. Prince Alren was looking at her. The smile on the Prince's face was not a romantic smile. It was the smile of the owner who had just marked his latest property. In Alren's eyes that were flashing with electricity, Mira saw a clear message: You're attractive. You are strong. And you are mine.

  "Rhea," Henesa whispered urgently. "Stand up. Bow down."

  Mira stiff. Every muscle fiber in her body wanted to run. Wanting to jump the fence of that hanging garden and disappear into the darkness of the city. But she couldn't. There were hundreds of royal soldiers around the park. There was King Maren, whose aura was suppressing like gravity.

  Mira forced her legs to move. She stood up. Her knees didn’t shake—Kars’ training ensured that—but her hands were as cold as ice. She curtseyed. Stiff. Deep. Without a smile.

  "An honor... Your Highness," her voice was flat, emotionless.

  Polite applause began to sound, led by King Maren. But the applause felt hollow. Everyone knew what this meant. Ashart, the eccentric second-ranking family of the High Nine, was suddenly pushed to the center of the throne contest.

  "Enjoy the rest of the evening!" Alren concluded. "Next week, Asnaven's future will be decided."

  The prince turned and walked back into the palace, leaving chaos behind him.

  ***

  The journey home on the carriage was as silent as a funeral for Ashart.

  Dalt didn't talk about the device or Intian. He sat with his hands clenched on his knees, his eyes staring blankly out the window. Henesa massaged her temples, her face looking ten years older.

  Mira sat across from them. She plucked the Night Moon flower that Alren had pinned in her hair earlier, then squeezed it until it was crushed. The petals of the already wilted flower fell to the carriage floor.

  "This is a trap," Mira finally said, breaking the silence. Her voice was sharp.

  "Of course it's a trap," Henesa sighed. "Alren doesn't need a wife. He needs pawns."

  "Princess Vsnava for military alliance," Dalt analyzed, his voice heavy. "Lady Mira to calm the common folk. And you..."

  Dalt looked at Mira with a guilty gaze.

  "...you are the symbol of internal strength. Ashart is the family of the strongest wizards and Artificers. If he marries you, he secures the kingdom's magical technology and weapons supply. Plus..."

  "Plus what?" Mira asked.

  "Your eyes," Henesa whispered. "Those Amber eyes. He calls them 'Wildflower.' He knows you're different. Alren is a Lightning user. Lightning always seeks a strong conductor. He might sense the potential of your Intian, even if you hide it."

  "I don't want to," Mira said firmly. "I don't want to be Queen. I don't want to be an ornament in the palace."

  "We know, dear. We know," Henesa moved to sit beside Mira, hugging her tightly. Mira's body was stiff with anger. "We'll find a way out. We have one week."

  "One week," Mira repeated bitterly. "Before I'm sold to the highest bidder."

  Ah, this reminded her of Eliorr's conflict with Agnilith.

  Eliorr wanted Agnilith's daughters to be 'theirs.' But that desire was outright rejected by Agnilith, bringing destruction to Agnilith. Would this tragedy happen again?

  Mira hoped it wouldn’t.

  ***

  That night, Mira couldn't sleep. The Tropical Kiss perfume on her pillow no longer took her to a tranquil beach. Its scent now felt nauseating, mixed with the lingering smell of Alren's thunderstorm ozone that seemed to still cling to his skin.

  She stood on her bedroom balcony, staring at the Palace in the distance. The palace lights were still shining brightly, as if mocking her.

  Suddenly, there was movement in the shadow of a large Oak tree in the mansion's yard. Mira squinted. Someone was standing there, leaning against the tree trunk, smoking. The red tip of the cigarette glowed in the darkness.

  Mira didn’t need to guess. She climbed down. Not by the stairs, but by jumping from the balcony to a tree branch, then sliding down with acrobatic moves that were anything but princess-like. Her nightgown billowed.

  She landed on the wet grass, facing Kars.

  Kars isn't wearing his grand cloak tonight. He's wearing a plain black shirt. His face looks gloomy under the moonlight.

  "Did you see that fucking banquet?" Mira asked without preamble.

  "The whole city saw it," Kars replied, exhaling cigarette smoke into the cold air. "Prince Alren's lightning fireworks are enough to be seen all the way to the harbor."

  "He chose me, Kars."

  "I know."

  "He's a Lightning user. The rarest element in elemental magic."

  "I know. The royal family always has an affinity for storms. It's common knowledge."

  Mira stepped forward, gripping Kars's shirt collar. "You're so calm? I'm going to be turned into a showcase wife next week! My tournament? My freedom? My goals? They'll all be gone if I enter that golden cage!"

  Kars did not push Mira's hand away. He let the girl vent her anger. He stared into Mira's eyes, which were teary with frustration.

  "You think I would let it happen?" Kars asked softly. His voice was cold, deadly.

  Mira fell silent, her breathing rapid. "What can you do? He's a Prince. He's the future King. You're just... Homeless."

  Kars smiled faintly. A smile that didn’t reach his eyes. A dangerous smile. He tossed his cigarette and then stomped it out.

  "Prince Alren miscalculated," said Kars.

  "What?"

  "He thinks he’s choosing three candidates to compete for his heart," Kars stared at Mira intensely. "He doesn’t realize that he’s just invited the wolf into his chicken coop."

  Kars touched Mira's hand, which was still gripping his collar, then slowly lowered it.

  "Alren is looking for a strong wife. That's his weakness. He's arrogant. He thinks he can control the storm."

  "So?"

  "So," Kars' eyes gleamed in the darkness. "We won't run. We won't hide. You will join this game, Princess Rhea."

  Mira stared blankly. "Are you crazy? You're telling me to surrender?"

  "Not surrender. Infiltrate," Kars corrected. "For this one week, you will be the perfect candidate. You will enter the palace. You will see his weakness. And on New Year's Eve..."

  Kars leaned closer, whispering like a conspirator.

  "...you will make him afraid to choose you. You will show him that if he marries you, he won't get an obedient Queen. He will get a dagger under his pillow every night."

  Mira stared at Kars. The plan was insane. High risk. Totally Kars. "How do we do it?"

  "Tomorrow," said Kars. "We start a new kind of training. Not physical training. Not art training. But a manipulation training. I’ll teach you how to break a man’s ego without touching him. One day will be enough before you enter the palace."

  Kars turned, about to leave. "And Mira?"

  "Yes?"

  "Congratulations on your temporary engagement," Kars sneered mischievously, though there was a hidden flicker of possessiveness in his eyes. "Don’t forget to invite me to your party. I like free cake."

  Mira snorted, then let out a small laugh. A dry laugh, but at least it was a laugh. "You bastard."

  Kars disappeared into the shadows of the night. Mira stood alone under the Oak tree. She looked toward the palace again.

  Her fear slowly turned into something else. Something cold and sharp. Alren wanted a Storm? Fine. Mira would give him a Storm.

  Mira climbed back onto her balcony. Inside her room, she saw the Midnight blue dress hanging there. The dress was beautiful, but it was a prison uniform. She took scissors from her desk drawer. She didn't ruin the dress. But she cut the overly long hem of the skirt, making it shorter, easier to move in. Easier to run. Or kick.

  "The game begins, Your Highness," Mira whispered to her shadow in the mirror.

  Next week was New Year's Eve. And one of them—Mira or Alren—was going to get an unpleasant surprise.