Date: The 2nd Day of the Month of Blossoms, Year 1107 of the Imperial Calendar.
Location: The Gates of the Imperial Palace, Aethelgard.
The Imperial Palace was not a building; it was a city within a city, separated from the common world by walls of white marble so high they seemed to scrape the belly of the sky.
As the black carriage of House Kael rolled through the massive iron gates, the noise of the capital—the shouting vendors, the barking dogs, the grinding wheels—was instantly severed. In its place came a silence that smelled of manicured jasmine and stagnant water.
Aanya sat stiffly on the velvet cushions. Her hands were folded in her lap, gripping her handkerchief so tightly her fingers were numb.
"Look at the fountains," Riya whispered, peeling back the curtain. Her voice was a mix of jealousy and awe. "They are plating the statues in real gold. That peacock... is that a diamond in its eye?"
Aanya didn't look. She was too busy mentally rehearsing the list of "Do Nots" her father had drilled into her for the last three hours.
Do not smile too wide.
Do not eat anything oily.
Do not stand in direct sunlight for more than ten minutes.
Do not let anyone touch you.
"Listen to me," Kael said, leaning forward. His face was pale, beads of sweat glistening on his upper lip. The closer they got to the throne, the more the reality of his treason weighed on him. "This is it, Aanya. Once we step out of this carriage, there is no turning back. You are a product. You must sell yourself."
"I know, Father," Aanya said. Her voice sounded strange to her own ears—muffled by the layer of resin covering her right cheek.
"And remember," Elara hissed, reaching out to smooth a stray hair on Aanya's head, careful not to graze the skin. "Do not sweat. The Alchemist said moisture is the enemy. If you feel a bead of sweat on your forehead, dab it instantly. Do not let it roll down to the seam."
"I will try, Mother," Aanya whispered. "But I cannot command my pores."
"You must," Kael snapped. "Or we all hang."
The carriage jolted to a halt. The footman opened the door.
A blast of warm, perfumed air hit them. Aanya stepped out.
The courtyard was vast, paved with stones so polished they reflected the clouds. In the center stood five other carriages, and around them, the competition.
The Rivals.
Aanya felt a wave of nausea. Until now, the "other girls" had been abstract concepts. Now, they were flesh and blood. And they were terrifying.
To her left stood Lady Lysa, the daughter of the Grand Duke. She was a vision of gold—golden hair, golden dress, golden jewelry. She stood with her chin tilted up, looking at the palace servants as if they were insects. She didn't just have beauty; she had the arrogance of someone whose ancestors had owned this land for centuries.
To the right was Lady Mira, the General's niece. She was tall, taller than Aanya, with shoulders that spoke of archery practice and horseback riding. Her hair was pulled back in a severe, intricate braid. Her eyes were sharp, scanning the other girls like a commander assessing enemy troops. She looked lethal.
And near the fountain was Lady Elin. She was the daughter of the Southern Trade Lord. She was softer, rounder, with dark curls and a dress of red silk that hugged her curves. She was humming softly, her voice carrying a melody that made the guards turn their heads.
"They are real," Riya whispered, standing behind Aanya. "Aanya... they are real princesses. You are just..."
"I know," Aanya thought. I am just a thief in a stolen face.
A Eunuch with a high, nasal voice clapped his hands.
"Ladies! Candidates! Form a line! The Emperor awaits in the Grand Hall!"
The girls moved. There was a rustle of expensive silk and the clinking of jewelry. Aanya fell into line between Lady Lysa and Lady Mira.
"What is that smell?" Lady Lysa wrinkled her nose, leaning slightly toward Aanya. "Is that... sulfur?"
Aanya's heart stopped. The resin. It still carried the faint chemical scent of the Alchemist's lab.
"It is a medicinal herb," Aanya lied quickly, keeping her face impassive. "For my nerves."
"How quaint," Lysa sneered, turning away. "Commoners and their superstitions."
They began to walk.
The path to the Grand Hall led through a corridor of massive stone pillars. As they moved deeper into the palace, the air grew hotter.
The Emperor, in his infinite wealth, kept the palace heated by massive, roaring fireplaces—open pits of fire that lined the walls of the corridor to ward off the spring chill. The heat radiating from them was intense, like walking into an oven.
The other girls complained about their makeup running or their armpits dampening.
Aanya felt something far worse.
As they passed the third fireplace, a blast of hot air hit the right side of her face.
It happened instantly. The resin, which was designed to mimic skin, reacted to the sudden spike in temperature. It softened.
Aanya felt a sickening, sliding sensation.
The artificial cheek, usually tight against her scars, became tacky. It felt like a slab of wet clay was slowly detaching from her bone. Gravity pulled at it.
Oh gods, Aanya thought, her vision swimming with panic. It's melting. It's sliding off.
She imagined the mask sliding down her neck, revealing the twisted, red horror underneath right here in the hallway. She imagined the screams of Lady Lysa. She imagined the guards drawing their swords.
She stumbled.
"Watch your step," Lady Mira said sharply, grabbing Aanya's arm to steady her.
The jolt made the heavy resin slip another millimeter.
Aanya didn't say thank you. She ripped her arm away and brought her hand up to her face. She pretended to cough, covering her mouth and cheek with her palm.
Under the cover of her hand, she pressed.
She pushed the soft, warm resin back up against her cheekbone. She held it there, her fingers digging into the fake flesh, willing it to stick, willing the chemical bond to hold.
Stay, she begged silently. Please, just stay.
"Are you ill?" Lady Elin asked kindly from behind.
"I am fine," Aanya choked out from behind her hand. "Just... the smoke."
She walked the rest of the hallway like that—hand over her mouth, looking like a shy maiden coughing delicately. But in reality, she was physically holding her face together.
They reached the massive double doors of the Grand Hall. The air here was cooler, thank the Gods. The resin began to cool and harden again, re-adhering to the scar tissue.
Aanya slowly lowered her hand. She touched the seam near her jaw. It was intact.
She let out a shaky breath.
"Open the doors!" the Eunuch commanded.
The doors groaned open, revealing the Throne Room—a cavern of shadows and gold.
As Aanya stepped across the threshold, she realized the truth of her father's words. This wasn't a competition of beauty. This was a high-wire act over a pit of spikes.
Lady Lysa was worried about her lipstick. Lady Mira was worried about her posture.
Aanya was the only one worried that her face might melt and fall onto the floor before she even reached the throne.
She stepped into the Golden Cage, and the lock clicked shut behind her.