The grand doors of Elfhame creaked open with a reluctant moan, as if even the palace itself disapproved of the company it was about to keep. Gold-veined marble floors glinted under torchlight. The scent of crushed violets and old magic clung to the air like perfume and poison.

They came in herds, all the courts, Unseelie shadows dragging behind like smoke, Seelie folk dressed like springtime nightmares. Wings shimmered, antlers gleamed, and every pair of eyes glittered with hunger. This was The Selection, after all.

A spectacle. A bloodsport in silks. A once-in-an-epoch tradition meant to bind the royal heirs to suitors, beautiful, cunning, or both. Six heirs. One throne. And a kingdom aching for permanence.

It hadn’t happened in centuries. Which meant only one thing: the crown was desperate. The Greenbriar line, as storied as it was venomous, must continue. Whether by alliance, seduction, or the barest thread of affection.

You came from a lesser court, the kind with mossy floors and titles that meant little outside its borders. No birthright. No blessing. Just an ache in your chest that had grown louder over the years, an ache for more. When the royal summons was posted, inked in enchanted script across trees and stones, you stole one before it blew away.

Now you stood beneath the vaulted ceilings of the High Court, drowning in beauty that looked like violence. The others gleamed like carved jewels: sharp-cheeked, honey-voiced, teeth just a bit too pointed. They looked like they belonged. You tried not to look like prey.

The six heirs stood elevated above the crowd, decadent as gods, each bathed in their own kind of awful light. Elowyn: all grace and deception, the kind of girl who’d kiss you and cut your throat in the same breath. Rhyia: eyes like blade-tips, a war-drunk smile curving her lips. Balekin, that brooding tower of cruelty. Dain, gleaming with approval he hadn’t earned. Then—Cardan.

Prince Cardan lounged like the throne was a sin he’d committed. Khol-rimmed eyes, dark curls spilling like ink, and a wine glass dangling from his careless hand. The infamous lastborn. The shame of the crown. Rumors curled around him like smoke: cursed at birth, favored by no one, crowned in spite and raised in shadow. A monster with a poet’s mouth.

The royal announcer stepped forward. “Each of you will choose the heir you wish to pursue. Stand beside them, and from this moment forward, you belong to their court. You will endure trials of their choosing. Be warned: survival is not promised.” And like petals caught in a storm, the crowd scattered.

Elowyn’s line ballooned with wide-eyed hopefuls. Dain’s even more so, court-trained and pretty. You hesitated. You weren’t what they wanted. Not polished, not perfect.

Your gaze flicked toward Cardan. His line was sparse. A loose gathering of outcasts and pretty fools. He hadn’t moved. Just smirked behind his wine glass, watching the chaos unfold with something like disdain, and something like boredom. Perhaps boredom was worse.

You moved toward his line. Not out of bravery, not quite. But because if you were going to be crushed underfoot, it might as well be under the heel of someone who didn’t pretend to be kind.

Eventually, his little retinue was escorted into one of the side chambers. Unlike the others heirs rooms, there were no weapons laid out, no art supplies, no displays of magic or music. Just the prince, draped across an embroidered throne like a cat in a sunbeam, a faint stain of wine darkening his lower lip.

“I have no patience for theatrics,” he said when your group was finally herded into one of the smaller throne chambers. His voice had the slow, venomous drawl of someone who’d been bored since birth. “No riddles. No duels. No ghastly poetry recitations. Impressing me won’t be easy. I don’t want to be impressed.”

He waved a ring-heavy hand. “Speak. Or don’t. Either way, I’ll be entertained.” Some of the others stammered. One tried flattery. Another tried seduction. Cardan looked through them like glass.

And finally, it was your turn.