Standing at the very end of the last row of beautiful girls in dazzling dresses, I tug at my oversized black gown, trying to stop it from dragging in the dirt.
The itch from the wig Aunt Christabel forced on me is unbearable, and my patience is wearing thin.
We're all lined up in the palace courtyard, waiting for the crowned prince to choose his personal servant.
My gaze flits across the courtyard—rows upon rows of girls fidgeting with nervous excitement.
Their colorful gowns shimmer under the sunlight, and their perfect hairstyles speak of hours of preparation.
I shouldn't even be here.
"Tomorrow, get ready. I've found a dress for you," Aunt Christabel had said last night, her tone as sharp as the needle stitching my fate. "You'll be near the crown prince. Imagine that!"
But I don't want to imagine that. Why would I? I'm a boy—not a girl dreaming of a crowned prince!
Instead, I'm here, surrounded by girls desperate to be chosen, pretending to be someone I'm not.
Flashback to the Announcement
This nightmare started days ago when a royal proclamation spread like wildfire:
"Girls are needed in the palace for the crowned prince to personally choose his servant."
It wasn't the usual worker selection where young men and women were hired for five-year terms—a process meant to raise the living standards in Sabia through fair pay.
No, this was different.
The announcement ignited a frenzy. Girls across the kingdom dreamed of catching the prince's attention.
But for me, it was a trap.
Aunt Christabel, claiming her "illness" needed treatment, saw this as a chance to get rid of me. "You're delicate-looking enough to pass for a girl," she'd said, sneering.
Her words stung, but her ultimatum hit harder:
"If you're not chosen, don't come back here, Madin. Eighteen years of feeding and sheltering you is enough."
So, I came—planning to fail spectacularly and return to my late uncle's house.
Back to the Courtyard
"The royal family has arrived!" a booming voice declares.
The courtyard falls silent. I crane my neck to see the grand platform.
The king and queen exude authority and grace, their robes embroidered with golden patterns that glint in the sunlight.
The two princesses stand behind them, poised and elegant, their jewels sparkling as they survey the crowd.
And then, there's the crowned prince.
Even from a distance, his presence is magnetic.
His tall frame, clad in a shimmering regal robe, moves with deliberate confidence.
His dark hair is perfectly styled, and his calm, detached expression gives nothing away as his gaze sweeps over us.
The whispers around me grow louder.
"He's even more handsome than I imagined," someone breathes.
"I heard he's only twenty-three," another whispers.
I try to tune them out, but when I look at him, my breath catches. This is the kind of man people dream about but never actually meet.
I force myself to think of my future after I leave this place. No prince, no palace—just peace. Lost in thought, I almost forget where I am. Not hearing anything else but my thoughts.
Suddenly, two guards seize my arms.
Their iron grip jolts me out of my reverie. My stomach twists as they drag me forward. Did someone discover my secret? Am I about to be humiliated—or worse?
The crowd blurs as I'm shoved to the base of the platform, right in front of the prince and his family. I keep my gaze on the ground, too terrified to look up.
"What is the meaning of your delayed response?" the crowned prince asks, his voice calm but sharp. "Do you not know the difference between rows and columns, or have you forgotten the color of your dress?"
My lips part, but no sound comes out. My throat feels like it's closing.
"Did you not hear me?" he presses. "Or is it that you cannot speak?"
Before I can respond, one of the princesses interrupts. Her voice is soft but cold.
"Brother, why not choose someone more suitable? Someone presentable. There are plenty of girls here who would fit better."
I feel her disdain like a slap, but the prince's response surprises me.
"Thank you for your suggestion, dear sister," he says smoothly, a faint smirk in his tone. "But I'm choosing a servant, not a wife."
The words sting more than they should, but before I can process them, he adds:
"Take her in. I've decided on her."
The shock hits me like a blow.
"I can't, my prince," I blurt out, my voice trembling. "I was forced to come here. I'm sick, and I can't do anything right. Please, spare me this responsibility!"
The prince's piercing blue eyes lock onto mine. For the first time, I meet his gaze. There's something unreadable in his expression—curiosity, perhaps amusement.
"That's precisely why I chose you," he says, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
What does that even mean?!