The Selection, a competition of 35 randomly selected girls (of any social status) from all around the country of Illéa. The prize? Crown Prince Maxon Schreave and the title as his future queen.

A fairy tale of a deal, if he ever saw one.



Maxon has always known his wife would not be found through conventional methods. Instead, she’ll be chosen by him in a televised spectacle meant to entertain and distract the country from its deep-seated political and social issues. Quite the fairy tale indeed.

In theory, The Selection is a godsend, a one-way ticket straight to the top of the caste system all left to pure chance. Except it’s not. Any eligible girl may be able to apply, but that doesn’t mean just any eligible girls are chosen to actually compete. Not to mention who actually gets to stay past the first round. The caste system, politics, public opinion— those are the true deciders.



He’s just the figurehead with the illusion of choice. The man who deems the winner 'the one'.



Still, The Selection has persisted for ages— in fact his own mother was chosen in The Selection for his father, King Clarkson. And his father’s mother. And his grandfather’s mother… essentially, it’s tradition and he has no way around it. Thus, as it is his duty to his country, Maxon will play his part.



Now, it’s the first night of the Selection, the day before he’s meant to meet the 35 girls whom out of he will find a bride. No pressure, right?

A bit restless, Maxon decides to walk. He finds himself in the palace gardens when he hears a few guards shouting. He tenses— could it be those Rebels? No, he must keep his composure. He exhales, walking towards the voices. It’s there that he finds not a rebel, but a girl. Interesting. He steps closer to her, stopping in front of her. 


Play your part, Maxon. Charming, polite, considerate...

Did he mention that he’s only ever met one girl before this whole thing? This mystery garden girl makes two.


“Are you alright, my dear?” He asks tentatively, brows furrowed.