The Test of Talents and Revelation
The Grand Hall was abuzz with anticipation. The tension in the air was palpable, a heavy silence rippling through the rows of seated princesses as Mawi, the King's esteemed messenger, stepped forward once more. His long ceremonial robe trailed behind him like a shadow, the deep crimson fabric embroidered with golden sigils denoting his rank.
His voice was smooth, resonant, cutting cleanly through the expectant hush.
"Your Highnesses. Your Majesties. Esteemed nobles of the court," he began with formal reverence, "we now commence the Second Test of the Selection."
A subtle rustling of silk and jewels stirred as the princesses straightened in their seats, each face schooled into masks of composure, though their eyes gleamed with hunger. They were hunters in gilded cages, waiting for the right moment to strike.
Mawi's gaze swept over the grand chamber, his expression unreadable.
"You are to reveal, before the assembled royalty and nobility of Nythoria, your most prized talent, skill, or power. You will speak not just of yourself, but of how your gift will benefit this kingdom… and its future king."
A murmur of excitement shivered through the vast, gilded hall.
Mawi continued, "Step forward, one by one. Show us why you are worthy."
One after another, the princesses rose with practiced elegance.
They glided forward on slippered feet, their gowns swishing softly across the polished marble floor, faces painted like delicate porcelain masks—serene, flawless.
Some demonstrated graceful dances said to entice the winds, their bodies moving like liquid silk. Others sang ancient songs, their voices weaving spells that hung in the air like delicate incense. A few, more daring, showcased weapons mastery, spinning enchanted daggers with lethal precision or loosing arrows at near-impossible speeds toward conjured targets.
At times, the Queen Dowgar gave a small nod of approval, her sharp, elegant profile unmoving save for the faintest quirk of her brow. At others, she remained impassive, her eyes like ice, watching—always watching.
The princes maintained their regal composure, yet each observed with varying degrees of interest.
Prince Amir lounged lazily in his seat, golden eyes gleaming as he grinned at the more dramatic displays. He seemed amused by the entire spectacle, leaning over at times to whisper to Prince Cason, who answered with a slight, knowing smirk.
But Derek, the Crown Prince, was silent and still as stone. His cool gaze dissected each offering as if searching for something deeper, something truer. None of the princesses yet had drawn more than a flicker of his attention.
Until she appeared.
The hall seemed to quiet the moment Xyril rose from her seat.
A collective intake of breath followed her slow, deliberate steps toward the center of the chamber.
She was ravishing.
Her skin glowed like sunlit bronze, smooth and flawless. Her long, ink-black hair was twisted into an elaborate braid coiled high atop her head, studded with small silver crescent moons that glittered with every graceful movement.
Her gown was emerald green, sleeveless, clinging to her hourglass figure with sinful precision. The slit at her thigh revealed long, toned legs that seemed to stretch forever, and her hands were adorned with intricately wrought silver rings, each inscribed with ancient southern runes.
Cason's green eyes darkened the moment he saw her.
Something about her struck him deeply—the self-assurance in her walk, the calculating intelligence behind her dark lashes.
When she reached the center, she bowed low, her back curving into a smooth, seductive arc.
"Your Majesties. Your Highnesses," she greeted, her voice soft as silk but carrying clearly. "I am Princess Xyril, youngest daughter of King Tarus of the South Isles. My kingdom, as you know, has never lost a war."
There was a note of pride in her voice—one that was earned, not bragged.
Cason leaned forward slightly in his chair, his long fingers tapping once on the polished wood of his armrest.
Xyril continued, her eyes never wavering from the dais.
"My talent is one granted by the heavens: I can see the past, the present… and the future."
A murmur of awe rippled through the nobles.
Prince Amir raised his brows, amused.
But it was Cason who spoke, his voice a quiet challenge.
"If you see the future, then tell me—" he said, his tone smooth, yet edged with curiosity. "What shall happen to me in three days' time?"
Xyril smiled slowly, her lips curving into something that was almost dangerous.
"As you wish, my lord."
She closed her eyes.
The hall held its breath.
Long moments passed in silence.
Then she opened her eyes.
"My Lord," she said gently, "on the first day, you will travel to the mountains, seeking knowledge. On the second, you will meet with the woman you will choose to be your future queen. On the third day… you will fall from a cliff. And break your bones."
Cason's expression stilled. His smile faded into thoughtful silence.
She was right. He had indeed planned each of those events in secret.
He chuckled, low and genuine, and gave a slow clap of appreciation.
"Well," King Aldric said, grinning broadly, "I suppose we'll have to cancel that trip to the cliffs."
The room burst into laughter, even as Cason's gaze remained locked on Xyril.
As the laughter faded, Derek spoke.
His voice was low, firm—like thunder rolling just over the horizon.
"Princess Xyril."
She turned toward him, dipping her head in respect.
"Is she present?" Derek asked. "The one who will break the Devil's curse?"
Silence.
A hush that seemed to suck all the air from the room.
Even the nobles who had appeared disinterested leaned forward.
Xyril was still for a long moment. Then she spoke.
"My Lord… live forever," she said softly, but her voice carried far. "The woman bestowed with that power walks freely among us. Yet she does not know herself. She has already met the Devil—and she is his target."
The room erupted in whispers, the tension thick and tangible.
Elowen's breath caught.
Her pulse pounded as she felt Derek's gaze spear into her, pinning her in place.
She stared down at her hands, willing them not to tremble.
He knows, she thought, her heart a frantic drumbeat in her chest.
But how could he?
I am not—
I can't be—
The King raised a hand, and silence slowly returned.
"We will not dwell on prophecies," King Aldric said smoothly. "We are here to celebrate… not to fear."
Yet his tone was grim beneath its calm.
Finally, it was Selene's turn.
She rose like a queen already crowned, her sapphire gown gleaming like a thousand stars.
When she reached the center, she did not bow. She simply raised a pale, elegant hand.
And from her fingertips, fire bloomed.
The flames coiled and danced in mid-air, weaving themselves into shapes, forming a phoenix that burned bright and golden, before dissolving into sparks.
Gasps filled the hall. Even the Queen's brows rose a fraction.
"Pyrokinesis," Selene said, her voice smooth. "The ability to control flame. My gift… and my legacy."
She lowered her hand, her lips curving into a cold, triumphant smile as the flames vanished.
Applause thundered through the chamber.
Selene turned on her heel and returned to her seat, her eyes flickering with dangerous satisfaction.
Mawi returned to the center.
"The results of the test will be revealed in two days," he announced. "Until then, rest. And prepare for what is to come."
He turned to the dais and bowed.
The King rose, his robes flowing behind him like a wave of gold. The Queen followed, and the three princes stood as well.
At once, the court bowed deeply, foreheads pressed to the marble floor.
When the royal family left the hall, the princesses slowly straightened, and the room broke into quiet murmurs and whispered strategies.
As the crowd thinned, Mawi's voice rose again.
"Maiden Elowen," he called. "The Crown Prince has requested your presence."
The room went deathly silent.
Elowen froze where she stood, her heart lurching.
All heads turned toward her, stares sharp with curiosity… and suspicion.
The princesses whispered behind their hands.
Selene's glare was ice-cold, her lips twisting in a sneer.
Jeria's gaze narrowed, and even some of the nobles craned their necks to get a better look.
Elowen's hands clenched at her sides, her pulse pounding in her ears.
She stepped forward, each movement stiff as if she were walking to her execution.
And all the while, she could feel Derek's stare, unwavering.
What did he want?
Why had he summoned her?
And why, in the deepest part of her heart, did she fear… he already knew the answer?
As Elowen reached the foot of the dais, Derek stood waiting, his expression unreadable, but his eyes alight with something dangerous.
"Come," he said.
And she did.
Because she had no other choice.