Third Trial: The Test of Command
A massive stallion was led into the courtyard, its powerful hooves striking against the stone. Muscles rippled beneath its sleek, dark coat as it tossed its head, nostrils flaring in defiance.
This was Bluelight—King Ronan's warhorse.
A beast that had charged into countless battles.
A beast that bowed to no one. Except the King.
He was fierce and Untamed.
"A queen must lead, not dominate," the councilman declared. His voice, though loud, was nearly drowned out by the horse's angry snorts.
"She must inspire loyalty, not force it."
The remaining six contestants stood in a tense line, staring at the raw, untamed power of the beast before them.
Before each woman, a simple set of tools was laid:
—A rope for guiding.
—A cloth for covering the horse's eyes.
—A handful of feed as an offering.
No whips. No bridles. No saddles.
Their task?
To gain the stallion's trust.
To lead it across the courtyard willingly.
Failure meant elimination.
The first contestant, Lady Marianne of House Garlon, approached cautiously, her hands trembling as she reached for the rope.
The stallion snorted loudly and reared back.
Marianne yelped and stumbled away, barely avoiding the kick of its hooves. Her face burned with humiliation as she stepped aside, defeated.
Next, Lady Ophelia of House Redmond took her turn. She held her head high, moving with confidence as she reached out with the feed.
The horse eyed her hand, its nostrils flaring, but made no move to accept her offering.
Ophelia huffed in frustration and tried to yank the rope—forcefully.
The stallion responded with an angry neigh, jerking away so violently that Ophelia was forced to drop the rope entirely.
She stormed away, her face like thunder.
A few of the remaining contestants managed some success—coaxing the stallion to take a step or two before it pulled away in distrust.
The court murmured in disapproval.
Then, it was Selene's turn.
She was unfazed.
She stepped forward with certainty, her emerald dress flowing behind her.
The stallion pawed at the ground, muscles tensed, its dark eyes flicking toward her in challenge.
Selene did not rush. She did not fumble with the rope.
Instead, she locked eyes with the beast.
And she waited.
The court watched, puzzled.
She did not reach for the feed. She did not attempt to touch it. She simply stood there, unmoving, unafraid.
A full minute passed.
Then another.
The stallion huffed, tail flicking, watching her just as intently as she watched it.
A silent battle.
Then—
The stallion took one step forward.
A sharp gasp rippled through the courtyard.
Selene, still motionless, exhaled slowly.
She whispered something.
No one else could hear the words.
But the stallion did.
It took another step.
And then another.
When Selene finally lifted her hand, it was not to grab the rope—but to gently press her palm against its muzzle.
The great beast lowered its head, exhaling softly against her touch.
Complete surrender.
Selene leaned in, whispering once more, and the stallion—without rope, without force—walked beside her.
Through the courtyard. Past the stunned nobles.
Obedient. Willing. Hers.
A stunned silence followed.
The council, still doubtful of her, exchanged glances. But they were all Begrudgingly impressed.
Selene turned at last, lifting her gaze to Ronan.
Their eyes met. And he smiled.
"Three more are eliminated," the councilman announced.
Selene walked back to her place without a single word.
Now came the final trial. The hardest one—The Test of Fire.
The palace courtyard fell into silence.
Servants moved swiftly, carrying metal containers filled with burning coals, dumping them onto the ground and raking them into a path.
Before the three remaining contestants, the path stretched forward—glowing. Heat rose in shimmering waves, distorting the air, as if the very ground dared them to step forward.
The Queen's crown was within reach.
But only for the one who endured.
A councilman stepped forward, for the last time.
"A queen must endure. A queen must not break."
The words echoed like a decree of fate.
Each woman was given one last chance to step away, but none did.
The first contestant, Lady Evangeline, hesitated at the edge, her fine silk dress trembling with her body. The fire's glow reflected in her wide, terrified eyes.
She took one trembling step forward.
The heat licked at her skin.
The pain struck hard.
She froze—considered the agony, the scars it might leave.
And then, with a sharp inhale, she stepped back.
"I yield," she whispered with teary eyes.
A murmur rippled through the court, disappointment laced in every hushed voice.
She had surrendered.
The second contestant, Lady Vivienne, inhaled sharply and stepped forward with purpose. She had come this far. She would finish and be crowned Queen no matter what.
One step.
Another.
Her face twisted in pain, but she pressed on.
The searing heat bit into her flesh, turning her pale skin an angry shade of red. Sweat dripped from her brow. Her hands trembled at her sides.
But halfway through, it became too much.
Her knees buckled—her body gave out.
She let out a piercing scream, her dignity vanishing as she stumbled—ran the rest of the way.
She collapsed at the end, gasping, her eyes filled with tears.
The court exchanged glances.
She had finished the trial.
But she had not endured.
Then—
Selene.
The fire danced in her emerald eyes as she stepped forward.
She did not hesitate.
She did not pause.
She walked.
Slow. Deliberate. Unfazed.
With every step, the burning coals bit into her skin.
Blisters rose. Flesh seared. The pain was unbearable.
And yet—
Selene never flinched.
She never faltered.
The flames licked at the hem of her dress, the air around her shimmering with unbearable heat.
But her expression remained untouched.
Controlled and Fierce.
The whispers in the court grew to stunned silence.
Some looked away, unable to bear the sight of her bare feet blackening against the scorching embers.
But Selene?
She did not look down.
She looked forward.
And when she reached the end—when her final step brought her onto cool stone—
She did not collapse.
She did not gasp, or cry, or tremble.
She merely lifted her head—and met Ronan's gaze.
Ronan rose to his feet.
The power of the moment was suffocating.
The silence stretched long and heavy.
And then—
"A true queen endures." Ronan's voice was like a commandment written in stone.
"A true queen does not break."
Slowly, he descended the steps of his throne.
Every step bringing him closer her.
Until he stood before her—face-to-face.
The fire in her eyes matched the fire in his.
His gaze dropped briefly, taking in the damage—the burned flesh, the raw agony she refused to acknowledge.
But when he looked back up, he did not see weakness.
He saw strength.
He saw his equal.
And in that moment—he knew.
He had found his queen.
As for Selene?
She was one step closer to plunging a dagger into his heart.