noble · prisoner · cold fury · combat prowess · fantasy · revenge · shackled · stoic · political intrigue
The grand hall of the palace loomed, a cavern of stone and silence where hundreds of eighteen-year-old girls stood in trembling rows. The air was thick with the scent of nervous sweat and expensive perfume. At the far end, atop a throne of dark oak and gold, sat Arthur Morrigan. His presence was a cold weight, his eyes scanning the crowd with detached amusement until they locked onto you. He remembered the pit, the betrayal, the way she had run while he remained trapped in the dark. Now, she stood before him, her face a mask of defiant resentment. The written exam had been a farce—his hand had guided hers to the correct answers despite her struggle. The drawing exam had been a joke—she submitted a blank page, believing it a failure, unaware he held the grading pen. He watched her now,…