The rest of the day after returning from the harbor passed quickly. In the meantime, the princess had written a schedule for the tournament on a small slip of paper, marking the rotation of the princes between their tasks. She made her own copy as well, adding two secret trials she hoped would reveal the true character of each contender.

  Belara was looking forward to the evening—not just because no banquet had been held for quite some time, but mostly because of the dress brought to her by Prince Qelmar. Her seamstresses had worked tirelessly since the previous day to adjust it perfectly to her figure.

  At sunset, bells rang to announce the coming of dusk. In the center of the hall stretched a table so long that the royal treasurer might have compared it to the cost of a war. Gleaming plates, cutlery, goblets, and chalices reflected the candlelight. Everywhere was opulence: a glaring testament to the majesty of the Dusughbarahn Kingdom.

  Prince Qelmar entered the banquet hall first. To pass the time, he took a cup of wine from a nearby servant and allowed himself a generous sip. As soon as the taste spread across his tongue, he blinked in surprise and smacked his lips appreciatively.

  “Very good…” he murmured to himself with satisfaction.

  Then he drained the rest of the wine in one go. Before the servant could refill his cup, Qelmar simply took the entire carafe, filled his chalice again, and didn’t bother to return it.

  Prince Kelen entered second. The two exchanged a brief nod of greeting before the younger prince made his way toward another servant pouring drinks. To Qelmar’s astonishment, Kelen asked only for water.

  Does this boy drink nothing else? Qelmar shook his head in disbelief. Then an idea struck him: it might be amusing to get the lad drunk—preferably before dinner even began, so he could embarrass himself and provide some entertainment.

  “Kelen, have a drink with me. This vintage is seventeen years old—the year the princess was born.”

  “That’s the same year I was born. Just elsewhere,” Kelen replied.

  “Well then! You can’t ignore a peer of your age without at least a toast,” Qelmar said, smiling slyly.

  “All right. Since it’s a peer, I’ll make an exception,” the young prince agreed and allowed his cup to be filled with wine.

  “Really good,” he admitted after a sip. “But I won’t have another.”

  “You must have a strong reason not to, after tasting something like that.”

  “I consider wine a trigger… for verbal necromancy.”

  “I’m sorry—what?” Qelmar stared at him in confusion.

  “It revives thoughts that are better left buried.”

  “That’s just honesty you’re describing.”

  “No, it’s not honesty. When wine awakens thoughts long entombed in your mind… that’s a corpse-storm.”

  “So you’re saying you’re afraid that if you drink wine, you’ll start flinging corpses at your fellow diners during the meal?”

  “Exactly. And imagine how that would ruin everyone’s appetite. So forgive me, Qelmar, but I won’t have another glass.”

  “As you wish,” Qelmar muttered, annoyed that his plan to intoxicate the young prince had failed.

  The doors opened, and the princess entered, resplendent in the gown Qelmar had gifted her the day before. Both princes froze, body and mind alike. Each stared at the goddess of beauty walking toward them. Qelmar was so stunned that the strength left his hands. A crash followed: shattering glass, the clink of shards, and the thud of a copper carafe hitting the floor. Wine everywhere. Pieces of glass scattered across the tiles.

  “Are you all right, Prince?” Belara asked, stopping at once to avoid staining her gown.

  “You are… stunning,” Qelmar managed, grateful he didn’t have to say anything more.

  “You look wonderful, Belara,” said Kelen, and for the first time, he found the courage to seize the moment. Skirting the puddle of wine and shards—already being cleaned by servants—he approached the princess, knelt, and kissed the back of her hand. Then he looked up into her face and said, “The Pearl of Tal Namaréa is, compared to you, a wretched trinket.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  “Thank you for your heartfelt words, Prince Kelen. I’m glad to see honesty still has a place in this world,” the princess replied.

  “I have honest words as well,” came a voice from behind. Qelmar had regained his composure and could not stand to watch Kelen collecting favor. He was certain he had already ensnared the princess’s heart earlier in the day, and he intended to press that advantage. But he faltered when Belara suddenly stepped back, two swift paces. He stopped, bewildered, quickly wondering what had gone wrong. Only that morning, while strolling through the marketplace, he had been sure she desired him. When had it shifted? Why?

  Earlier that day, Belara might indeed have fallen into Qelmar’s arms. But now she refused to let him approach—not out of whimsy, but because she understood she was no longer just an enchanted girl. She was a princess, and one who must judge between men. Tonight, she intended to give Kelen space as well. Since her visit to the Queen of Grace that afternoon, she had resolved that Qelmar would not dominate the evening as he had before.

  “Don’t misunderstand me,” Belara said. “But you have wine on your boots. I cannot risk you ruining your own gift. The dress must stay pristine.”

  Grounded again by her words, Qelmar slipped smoothly back into his flirtatious rhythm.

  “You’re right, foolish me… I meant only to honor you, but dazzled by your beauty, I forgot I might spoil my own gift. Forgive me. I’ll go change my shoes.”

  The prince from Tassask bowed and left the room.

  For a moment, silence settled. Kelen felt he should say something, but his mind was blank, and his ears burned.

  “Dinner should begin soon. Strange that it’s just the two of us here,” Belara remarked.

  “Arriving at a banquet isn’t simple,” Kelen said. “Back at our court, we once had a heated debate about the perfect arrival time.”

  “And what conclusion did you reach?” she asked, giving him a warm smile.

  “The best moment is what we call the ‘Intersection of the First Scent.’” Seeing her puzzled look, he explained,

  “It’s the moment just before the start, when you can hear the cooks bringing in the dishes, but the plates and cutlery are still spotless. Arrive too early, and your eager stomach loses its edge and refuses to cooperate later. Arrive too late, and two things happen: first, you seem rude and unpunctual; second, all that’s left for you is dessert.”

  “And if I miss this Intersection of the First Scent?” she teased.

  “Then you’re a poor hunter of dinners,” Kelen said playfully, making the princess laugh aloud.

  “Thank you for making me laugh, Prince Kelen. Now I’m even hungrier for dinner. By the clock, I’d say we’ve hit the intersection perfectly.” They shared another brief laugh.

  “It won’t be long now. Any moment they’ll—ah, here they are. My parents have arrived,” said Belara, moving to greet them after a day apart. Kelen shook hands with King Velen III and offered Queen Asarda a deep, proper bow.

  Things moved quickly from there. Princes Malgorn and Qelmar entered together shortly after, followed by Diplomat Jhalen and Chief Advisor Meradan.

  The king gave a signal to the head chef, who appeared from somewhere unseen, and soon servants streamed in bearing platters of every imaginable dish.

  When all was ready, King Velen thanked the chef and gestured for everyone to lift the goblets laid before them. Thanks to the seating arrangement, everyone knew their place.

  “To the health and beauty of my only daughter, Belara! And to a smooth tournament beginning tomorrow. May you all enjoy yourselves, and may the victor claim Tal Namaréa!”

  He raised his glass, and the others followed suit. They clinked, sipped the light alcoholic toast, and finally took their seats.

  Conversation flowed freely throughout the meal. When dessert approached, Belara signaled Jhalen with a nod and stood. The royal diplomat unfolded a collapsible board at the far end of the table and spread out a large sheet of parchment already divided into neat rectangles. The leftmost column bore the labels Day 1 through Day 9.

  “My dear princes,” she began. “You already know what trials await you. What you do not yet know is the order in which you’ll face them. The first task sets the whole rotation in motion. If all goes well, the tournament will last just nine days.”

  She pulled out her small slip of notes.

  “To keep it simple, allow me a quick summary. The tournament has a clear rhythm, and each of you will have your moment.”

  “On the third and sixth days, we rest. A well-earned break, especially for the children, though I suspect you won’t mind either. Days when the tournament slows, and the kitchens work at full strength,” she added with a small laugh.

  “First, Prince Qelmar will take the children on an excursion, while Prince Malgorn conducts an official interview with me. On the second day, Malgorn will serve as judge while Qelmar completes his journey.”

  “After the first rest day, it will be Malgorn’s turn for the excursion. Kelen will interview with me, and the following day he will judge.”

  “Then we pause again. By then, only three days will remain. A lighter interlude before the end.”

  “Next, Prince Kelen will lead his excursion, while I hold my interview with Qelmar. The following day, he will judge.”

  “The ninth and final day will decide everything. We will play a strategic board game, specially designed for this occasion,” Belara said with a sly smile.

  “This last challenge will determine who claims Tal Namaréa.”

  And perhaps, she thought, whether I will choose one of them as my husband.

  Belara spoke smoothly while Jhalen recorded everything neatly on the chart, so the princes instantly understood the rotation.

  “That’s all,” she said with a smile. “The schedule is revealed. Now, let’s have dessert.”

  King Velen III had been polite and quiet throughout the evening. He appeared composed, almost serene, but Chief Advisor Meradan and Diplomat Jhalen knew better. Inside, the king was churning with unease. And they were right.

  What if Belara chose none of them? What if she rejected them all? We’d be left without an ally—and worse, they might take offense and turn to Kendelen instead. We could lose the pearl. Yes, it belongs to the princess, no question there. But with that gift, we might have forged an army. Instead, we have only hope—vague and uncertain. And from such fog, betrayal might emerge.

  The king stared into his goblet of wine, tuning out the chatter around the table.

  Another enemy is the last thing we can afford.

  But what if, right now—without realizing it—we’re creating one?