Layle

I stand before the full-length gilded mirror in my bedroom, critically appraising my reflection and the hair style my servants prepared for my seventh Season. Ornate tapestries depicting heroic legends from ages past adorn the stone walls.

A massive four-poster bed draped in crimson silks and velvets dominates the room. Filtered sunlight streams in through the narrowed arched windows, casting elongated rectangles of light across the plush carpet scattered over the flagstone floor.

One of my maids fusses with my emerald green gown, stitched with golden vines along the bodice. Another runs an ivory comb through my long silver hair before styling them into an intricate braided updo.

I sigh impatiently. All this primping and preening for another pointless social Season. You’d think after six years, the novelty would have worn off.

Well, at least there will be one form of entertainment this Season—annoying Tiernan Northgard. The way his eye twitches when he’s annoyed is rather amusing, and I allow myself a small smirk at the thought. Gods, I can’t stand him.

But duty calls, I suppose. As King Agis’s daughter, my role is to smile prettily, make banal conversation, and eventually secure an advantageous match to increase my family’s power and territory.

The thought makes me want to hurl the hairbrush at the mirror.

I have no interest in finding a husband, let alone love. My only goal is to have my fun and return home, biding my time until the next year when I’ll have to do it all over again. The very idea of this tradition fills me with disdain.

Unfortunately, my father is a stickler for outdated rules and regulations. One of the many things we butt heads over.

I always look down on the poor souls who show up to these events hoping to find their one true love. Fools, the lot of them. My desires lie elsewhere—in ruling, when I’m finally able to take over the throne.

Love and marriage are nothing but distractions from my true purpose. And I’ll rule differently. In a world of dragons and dragonslayers, like Commander Cillian Northgard, leader of Lorcia’s military, why must a woman be relegated to the castle?

I’m strong, and I could be so much stronger if only these damned social mores would allow it.

There’s a knock at my door, and my servants pause, glancing at me.

“Enter,” I call out, glaring into the mirror as my door opens to reveal a messenger.

“Your Highness,” he says, nervously playing with his hands. “The king requests your presence for breakfast before you leave.”

Fine.

With one last withering glance at my reflection, I sweep out of my room with a swish of my skirts and quickly make my way to the dining hall. It’s a grand, imposing room that seems to stretch on forever.

The walls are adorned with intricate tapestries, depicting the Moorgrave family’s conquests and triumphs and both men and creatures, while ornate golden sconces cast a warm glow over the space. Elaborate frescoes of dragons not seen in over a hundred years paint the high, vaulted ceiling, its ethereal beauty a stark contrast to the heavy, wooden furniture below.

At the center of the room stands a massive oak table, long enough to seat the entire court. But tonight, only two place settings are laid out, one at each end. I frown as I take my seat, wondering why my father has requested this private audience. It’s unusual for us to dine alone, without the bustling energy of courtiers and their incessant chatter.

My father sits at the head of the table, his imposing figure clad in rich, deep purple robes trimmed with ermine fur. His salt-and-pepper beard is neatly trimmed, and he regards me with cool, calculating eyes as I settle into my chair. I can’t help but feel a sense of unease.

Servants glide silently into the room, bearing platters of succulent roast boar, herb-crusted potatoes, honey-glazed carrots, and freshly baked bread. The aroma is enticing, but my appetite is dampened by the tension in the air. I pick at my food, the stilted conversation between my father and me doing little to ease my discomfort.

The silence stretches between us.

Finally, he clears his throat and looks up at me. “Layle, there’s a matter of great importance we need to discuss.”

I glance up at him. “Oh?”

“As you know, the Season is fast approaching,” he continues, his eyes boring into mine. “And I expect you to be on your best behavior this year. It’s high time you found a suitable match.” His tone brooks no argument.

I roll my eyes and stab at my plate with more force than necessary, the clang of silverware against porcelain ringing out in the cavernous room. “Yes, Father,” I reply, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’ll be sure to bat my eyelashes and simper like a proper lady.”

His face darkens, a vein throbbing in his temple. “This is no joking matter, Layle. In fact, I have an announcement to make.” He sets down his goblet with a heavy thud, and my heart starts to beat faster. “If you fail to find a suitable husband this Season, I will be forced to choose a new heir for the throne. The Moorgrave royal lineage will die with me.”

What? I nearly choke on my wine. “You can’t be serious!”

“I am deadly serious,” he growls, his dark eyes flashing with anger. “It is your duty to secure the future of our kingdom through marriage and producing an heir.”

“There’s no one worthy to align myself with,” I bite out.

“Then lower your standards,” my father retorts, his large, meaty hands clenching into fists. “You’ve had six Seasons to find someone, and you’ve failed each time. I am not sending you to the Isolated Court just so you can have fun. You’re there to make a match.”

Fury boils in my veins. I push back my chair and stand, palms slamming onto the table. “This is absurd! I don’t need to be wed to produce a child!. This whole tradition is outdated anyway!”

“Enough!” my father roars, rising to his feet. “I am the king, and my word is law. No one speaks to me in such a manner, not even my own daughter. You do not get a pass just because we share blood. I demand respect from all, including you.”

“Respect is earned, not given,” I spit back, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. “And you’re being completely unreasonable.”

“I have made my decision,” he states, his voice cold as steel. “You will find a husband this Season, or you forfeit your claim to the throne. That is final. Am I understood?”

I open my mouth to argue with him further, but the look in his eyes stops me in my tracks. There’s no reasoning with him when he’s like this. A sense of hopelessness washes over me as I realize the gravity of the situation. If I ever hope to take the throne, I have no choice but to play by his rules, no matter how much I despise them.

“Understood,” I say through gritted teeth, my voice tight with barely contained rage and frustration. “I’ll find a husband, but don’t expect me to be happy about it.”

My father tilts his head at me, like a predator assessing its prey. “Your happiness means nothing to me,” he states simply, his words slicing through me. “All that matters is the continuation of our lineage.”

With that, he storms out of the dining hall, leaving me seething in his wake. I collapse back into my chair, my appetite replaced by a knot of dread and resentment. How can he do this to me?

Tears of anger and helplessness prick at the corners of my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I cannot let the guards and servants see any weakness. They would fall upon that crumb like a beggar would a meal.

But inside, I’m screaming.

How can he force me into this? To marry some—some stranger just to satisfy his outdated notions of propriety and lineage? It’s not fair. I feel like a pawn in his political games, my own ambitions and desires secondary to his whims.

But what choice do I have? If I don’t find a spouse this Season, I’ll lose everything. My birthright, my chance to make a difference in this world. I can’t let that happen.

Taking in deep breaths, I push back my emotions until I fit them into a tiny little box in my mind and lock it shut. I can’t lose it right now. I have to think logically.

Straightening my back, I sit up in my seat. I’ll play my father’s game. I’ll find a husband, someone I can tolerate long enough to secure my place on the throne. I’ll even pop out a brat or two to ensure the Moorgrave line.

And then, once I have the power, I’ll change things. I’ll make sure no other woman has to endure this archaic, oppressive tradition.

But for now, I grit my teeth and bear it. No matter how much it tears me apart.