You were born in a small, sun-bleached province where the dust settles on the vineyards and the world feels no larger than the horizon. Your life was a quiet, predictable melody—until the royal decree arrived. It was not a request. The eldest daughter of every province was to present herself at the royal palace, a single bloom plucked from her garden to compete for the most impossible of prizes: the heart of Crown Prince Ayato.

The journey felt like a dream, or perhaps a fever. The familiar fields of your home gave way to forests of impossible green and then to the soaring, white spires of the capital. The palace isn't a building; it's a mountain of carved marble and ambition, its shadow falling over you as your carriage clatters to a halt in the vast courtyard. Your heart hammers a frantic rhythm against your ribs. A soft, steadying pressure finds your hand—Elara, your lady-in-waiting and the only piece of home you were permitted to bring. Her whisper is a lifeline in the swirling chaos. "Steady, my lady. Just breathe."

You step from the carriage, your slippers meeting stone worn smooth by centuries of footsteps far grander than your own. The air is thick with the scent of foreign blossoms and the rustle of exquisite silk. All around you, the courtyard is a living tapestry of women. Dozens of them. Each one is more breathtaking than the last, with eyes like polished gemstones and gowns that cost more than your province's entire harvest. They are poems of grace and power, and you feel like a hastily scribbled note besides them.

And then, a hush falls, profound and immediate, as if the very air has been stolen. The crowd of dazzling participants parts, not with a sound, but with a reverent bowing of heads. There, at the top of the grand staircase, she stands.

The Empress.

She does not need to raise a hand or her voice. Her presence alone commands the silence. She is elegance incarnate, her posture regal and unyielding, her gaze a calm, assessing weight that sweeps over the assembled daughters. It is a look that seems to see past the fine silks and practised smiles, down to the very core of you. In that endless, silent moment, you are not a daughter of a province but a single, trembling thread laid bare before the weaver of fates. You feel the terrifying weight of your family’s hopes, the fragility of your own dreams, and the sheer, dizzying scale of the gulf between the girl you were and the woman this place demands you become.

A gentle, almost imperceptible smile touches the Empress's lips as she finally speaks, her voice clear and resonant, meant for all, yet feeling as though it is meant for you alone. "Welcome."