POV: Ravenna
I woke up with my neck screaming in protest and someone shaking my shoulder gently.
"Princess. Princess Ravenna."
I jerked upright, blinking against the morning light streaming through the window. Where was I? This wasn't my chambers. This was—
The healing wing.
Theron's room.
And I'd fallen asleep in the chair beside his bed like some kind of—of—
"Oh gods." I stood so fast the chair tipped over behind me. My hair was a disaster, my robe was twisted, and I was still in my nightclothes. In public. In the healing wing. "Oh gods, oh gods, this is—Father is going to kill me—"
"Your father doesn't know you're here."
I spun. Lysander stood in the doorway, silver-haired and gentle-faced, with a healer's calm that made me want to scream.
"He doesn't?"
"The guards have been... discreet." A small smile. "You're not the first young woman to keep vigil over a wounded warrior."
My face burned. "It's not like that. I wasn't—we're not—"
"Of course not, Princess." He moved past me to check Theron's bandages. "How's our patient?"
I glanced at the bed. Theron was asleep again. Or pretending to be. Hard to tell.
"He woke up," I said. "Around dawn. Talked a little."
"Good. That's very good." Lysander's hands moved with practiced efficiency. "The arrow missed anything vital, thank the gods. He'll recover fully. Though he'll have another scar to add to his collection."
Another scar. Because of me.
"I should go," I said quietly. "I need to—I have to—"
"The Trial of Mind begins in two hours," Lysander said without looking up. "You'll want to bathe and change before that."
Right. The trial. The competition. The whole reason any of this was happening.
"Who shot the arrow?" I asked.
"They're still investigating. Whoever it was disappeared into the crowd."
Of course they had. Because nothing in my life could be SIMPLE.
I looked at Theron one more time. His chest rose and fell steadily. Alive. Safe.
"Thank you," I said to Lysander. "For saving him."
"Thank him for saving you, Princess."
***
Morgana took one look at me when I stumbled into my chambers and said, "Oh for fuck's sake, Rav. Tell me you didn't."
"Didn't what?"
"Spend the night in the healing wing watching over the warrior who took an arrow for you like some tragic heroine from a bad romance."
I opened my mouth. Closed it. "Okay, fine, I won't tell you that."
She groaned. "You're going to give yourself feelings, you know that? Actual, real, complicated feelings that you won't be able to tantrum your way out of."
"I don't have feelings. I was just—I needed to make sure he was okay!"
"Why?"
"Because the arrow was meant for me!"
"So you feel guilty." She started unlacing my robe. "That's a feeling, love."
"It's not—that's different. That's just—" I didn't know what that was. "Help me get ready. I need to look perfect for the trial."
"Why? Planning to sabotage someone else today?"
I flinched.
Morgana saw it. Her expression softened. "Hey. I'm sorry. That was—"
"No, you're right." I sank onto the bed. "I've been terrible. Cruel. And I don't—I don't know how to stop."
"You start by actually trying to stop, Rav."
"But I don't want to marry any of them!"
"Even the one you kept vigil over all night?"
"Especially not him!" The words came out too loud. Too desperate. "He's—he's been rejected five times, Morgana. Five. I can't be the sixth. I can't do that to him."
She sat beside me. "Then don't."
"But Father—"
"Forget your father for two seconds." She took my hands. "What do you want?"
"I don't know!" And that was the problem, wasn't it? I didn't know anymore. A week ago, I'd known exactly what I wanted—no husband, no competition, my old life back.
But that was before an arrow. Before amber eyes. Before the hum.
"I'm scared," I admitted in a tiny voice.
"I know, love. I know."
"What if I can't go back to before? What if I'm—what if I'm changing and I don't know how to stop it?"
"Then don't stop it." Morgana squeezed my hands. "Change isn't the enemy, Rav. Being stuck is."
I wanted to argue. But didn’t want to throw something. Or to stamp my foot and scream that she didn't understand.
But maybe she did understand. Maybe she understood better than me.
"Come on," she said, standing and pulling me with her. "Let's get you into something that says 'I'm a terrifying princess who might stab you' for this trial."
Despite everything, I laughed.
***
The Trial of Mind was held in the war room.
I'd never been in here before. It was Father's space—stone walls covered with maps, a massive table in the center with miniature armies laid out in formation. Strategic. Cold. Made for planning battles, not throwing dinner parties.
All five candidates stood around the table when I arrived. Well, four standing. Theron sat in a chair, arm in a sling, pale but present.
He looked up when I entered. Our eyes met.
The hum surged.
I looked away first. Couldn't hold that gaze. Not after last night. Not after knowing.
"Ravenna." Father's voice. I turned to see him standing beside Master Veyron, the dragon combat trainer who'd overseen the first trial. "You're late."
"I'm perfectly on time, actually." I swept into the room like I owned it. Because I might not own my feelings, but I could at least own the appearance of confidence. "What's the trial?"
Veyron stepped forward.
"Strategy," he said. "Each candidate will command armies in a simulated war game. Points awarded for tactical decisions, final victory conditions, and—most importantly—how you handle the impossible choices."
"Impossible choices?" Edmund asked. He looked tired. Kind, but tired.
"War isn't just about winning, boy. It's about what you're willing to sacrifice to win." Veyron's eyes swept over all of them. "The trial will take three days. Today, tomorrow, and the final day. Each session builds on the last. Your decisions have consequences."
Oh. OH. This was—this was actually interesting.
I moved closer to the table, studying the miniature armies. Red for one side, blue for the other. Tiny castles, forests, rivers. Like a game.
Except it wasn't a game. This was how Father had learned to rule. How generals learned to lead.
How people learned to send others to die.
"Princess Ravenna will observe," Father said. "This trial isn't for you."
"I know that." I pulled up a chair. "Doesn't mean I can't watch."
He looked like he wanted to argue. Didn't. Because apparently even Father was wary of me after yesterday's assassination attempt.
"Begin," Veyron commanded.
The candidates moved to their positions. Each given command of identical armies. The scenario: defend a city from invading forces while also trying to take the enemy's fortress.
Edmund went first. Methodical. Careful. Placed his troops defensively, protecting his city while sending a small force toward the fortress. It was... safe. Honorable. Probably wouldn't win, but wouldn't lose badly either.
Roland went second. And promptly made three tactical errors in the first five minutes. Veyron's face said everything his mouth didn't.
Then Brock and Lucien.
And I watched him transform.
The charming, golden-haired candidate disappeared. In his place stood something colder. Calculating. He studied the board like he was seeing ten moves ahead.
His first decision: Sacrifice a third of his army as a distraction while the rest swept around for a surprise attack.
The miniature soldiers fell. Tiny wooden pieces knocked over.
"Bold," Veyron said neutrally.
"Effective," Lucien corrected. His voice was different. Sharper. No warmth. "They're just pawns. Better to lose some now than all later."
Something about the way he said "just pawns" made my skin crawl.
But it worked. His strategy was brilliant. Ruthless, yes, but brilliant.
Theron went last.
He stood slowly, arm still in the sling. Moved to the table. Studied it for a long moment without touching anything.
Then he started moving pieces.
His strategy was... unconventional. Instead of a direct assault or pure defense, he created a supply line. Fortified it. Then slowly, methodically, cut off the enemy's resources while protecting his own people.
It would take longer. But fewer casualties.
"Interesting," Veyron said. "You're playing for attrition."
"Playing to protect them." Theron's voice was quiet. "Not playing to win."
"Sometimes protecting them IS winning, boy."
The session ended an hour later. Lucien was clearly in the lead. Edmund second. Theron third because his strategy would take time to pay off. Roland was... well. Brock was going to lose spectacularly.
As everyone filed out, I found myself standing beside the table, staring at the tiny wooden armies.
I'd planned to sabotage them all. Make them look weak, incompetent, unworthy.
But watching Theron move those pieces with care, seeing him play not to win but to protect...
Something inside me twisted.
But I still needed to get out of this competition. Just the competition without hurting or rejecting.