Date: The 2nd Day of the Month of Blossoms, Year 1107 of the Imperial Calendar.
Location: The Grand Throne Room, Imperial Palace.
The doors to the Throne Room did not just open; they parted like the jaws of a leviathan.
Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of frankincense and old power. The room was a cavern of black marble and gold leaf, illuminated by a thousand candles that flickered in the draft. At the far end, raised on a dais of obsidian, sat the Throne.
And upon it sat King Darius.
He was not what Aanya expected. She had imagined a fat, jolly man or a withered old tyrant. Darius was neither. He was a man in his prime, perhaps forty years old, with broad shoulders and hair the color of iron. He lounged on the throne with a dangerous, casual lethargy, his chin resting on his fist.
His eyes were dark, heavy-lidded, and profoundly bored.
He looked at the five girls standing in a row before him—the finest flowers of Aethelgard—with the same expression a man might use when looking at a menu he had read a thousand times.
"Proceed," Darius said. His voice was a low rumble that vibrated through the floorboards.
The Chief Eunuch stepped forward, striking a golden gong.
"The First Test: The Arts of Grace!"
The court musicians, seated in the gallery above, raised their instruments. The conductor brought his baton down.
Music exploded into the room. It was a fast, lively composition—a complex reel meant to test agility, stamina, and rhythm.
Too fast, Aanya thought, her stomach dropping. It's too fast.
Beside her, Lady Lysa launched into motion immediately. She spun, her golden skirts flaring out like a blooming daffodil. She moved with practiced perfection, her feet tapping a rapid rhythm on the marble. She smiled brightly at the Emperor, tossing her hair, her breathing quickening with exertion.
Lady Mira was sharper. She danced like she was sparring—precise, athletic leaps, her movements cutting through the air. She was impressive, a warrior-maiden displaying her strength.
Even Riya, terrified Riya, began to move. She twirled, trying desperately to keep up with the tempo, a forced smile plastered on her face.
Aanya stood frozen.
The Alchemist's warning screamed in her mind. Rapid movement raises body heat. Heat softens the resin. Sweat breaks the bond.
If she danced like Lysa, if she spun and jumped and sweated, the face would slide off. The heat from the fireplaces was already gnawing at the edges of the mask.
I cannot run, Aanya realized. So I must walk.
She took a breath. She ignored the frantic tempo of the violins. She ignored the spinning girls around her.
Aanya began to move.
But she didn't dance to the music in the room. She danced to a funeral march playing only in her head.
She raised her arms slowly, her fingers uncurling like a flower opening at dawn. She took a step. It was agonizingly slow. She dragged the toe of her silk slipper across the marble, creating a silent arc.
While the other girls were jumping, Aanya was gliding.
She moved like she was underwater. She moved like she was made of fragile glass and the air itself was heavy.
Every movement was calculated.
Turn the head to the left. Slowly. Do not snap the neck.
Raise the chin. Let the light catch the resin. Do not smile.
A smile required the cheek muscles to lift. Lifting the muscles would pull against the glue. So Aanya kept her face dead.
Her expression was a blank, frozen mask of indifference. Her violet eyes stared straight ahead, unblinking, locking onto the empty space above the Emperor's head.
The crowd of nobles lining the walls began to whisper.
"Look at the Kael girl."
"Is she ill?"
"Why is she so slow? She is off-beat."
"She is stiff as a corpse. Has she no joy?"
Aanya heard them. The insults stung, but she didn't falter. She spun—a slow, 360-degree rotation that took ten full seconds. She held her arms out, her silhouette perfectly still against the chaotic backdrop of the other dancers.
She felt the sweat gathering at the nape of her neck. Don't run down, she prayed. Stay in the hair.
She felt the itch on her right cheek—the scar screaming for air. She ignored it. She became a statue. She became the porcelain doll her parents wanted.
On the dais, King Darius shifted.
He had been watching Lady Lysa spin. It was technically perfect. It was energetic. It was desperate. He could smell the desperation on her—the need to be liked, the need to be chosen. It bored him.
Then, his eyes slid to the center.
To the girl in violet.
She wasn't trying to impress him. In fact, she looked like she didn't care if he existed.
She moved with a haunting, eerie slowness that defied the music. While the others were frantic, she was still. While the others grinned like court jesters, she wore a face of absolute, freezing calm.
Darius sat up. He leaned forward, the velvet of the throne creaking.
"She does not smile," Darius murmured to himself.
He looked at her skin. It was pale, perfect, and unmoving. She looked like an ice sculpture carved in the shape of a woman.
In a court filled with people begging for his favor, laughing at his jokes, and throwing themselves at his feet, this coldness was intoxicating. It looked like dignity. It looked like power.
She is not dancing for me, Darius thought, fascinated. She is dancing for herself.
He didn't know she was terrified. He didn't know she was holding her breath to keep her face from melting. He didn't see a girl trying to survive; he saw a Queen who was above the common exertion of sweating.
The music reached its crescendo.
Lady Lysa ended with a dramatic flourish, breathing heavily, her chest heaving, a sheen of perspiration on her forehead. Lady Mira struck a pose, looking fierce.
Aanya simply stopped.
She didn't pant. She didn't wipe her brow. She slowly lowered her arms to her sides. She sank into a curtsy—low, controlled, and perfectly rigid. She didn't look at the floor. She kept her chin up, her violet eyes staring coldly at the throne.
The music died. The room fell silent.
The nobles waited. They expected the King to praise the energy of the Duke's daughter.
King Darius stood up.
He walked past Lysa. He walked past Mira. He stopped at the edge of the dais, looking down at Aanya.
"You do not enjoy the music?" Darius asked. His voice echoed in the silent hall.
Aanya's heart hammered against her ribs, but her face remained stone. She couldn't smile to be polite. She had to commit to the lie.
"The music is chaotic, Your Majesty," Aanya said, her voice smooth and devoid of emotion. "Chaos is for children. A Queen moves at her own pace."
A gasp went through the room. It was an insult. It was arrogance.
Riya, standing in the back, covered her mouth. She's going to be executed, Riya thought.
Darius stared at her. His dark eyes searched hers.
Then, slowly, a smile spread across the Emperor's face. It wasn't a polite smile. It was the smile of a man who had finally found something interesting.
"Ice Queen," Darius whispered.
He turned to the court.
"Did you see?" Darius boomed. "Look at the others. They are panting. They are sweating like farmhands in a field. But this one..."
He pointed at Aanya.
"...she has not shed a single drop. She is composed. She is pure. That is the grace of the heavens."
The court, sensing the King's mood, immediately changed their tune.
"Yes! Such poise!"
"Remarkable control!"
"The others look so messy in comparison!"
Aanya remained in her curtsy. She felt a trickle of sweat finally break free from her hairline, sliding down behind her ear where no one could see.
She hadn't won because she was graceful. She had won because she was the only one who couldn't afford to be human.
"Rise," Darius commanded, his eyes hungry. "Let us see if the face matches the spirit. The Second Test begins."