Chapter 1 THE CHOOSING

Before the sun crowned the mountain's edge, before the temple bells rang out across the sky, the silver-chained carriages rolled into the village like ghosts. Dust kissed the hems of skirts. Birds hushed mid-song. And every girl of age was told to stand outside, barefoot and silent, heads bowed like blooming things before the wind.

Lily stood still in the early mist, the hem of her ivory robe brushing the dewy grass. Her fingers clenched tightly in front of her, knuckles pale, though her face remained calm. That's what Aunt Syra had drilled into her: never show fear. Especially not when eyes were watching.

And eyes were always watching.

The guards emerged from the fog like shadows in steel, their armor nothing like the ceremonial gear worn by village soldiers. These were no ordinary escorts. Their armor was obsidian black, trimmed in deep gold, carved with the empire's crest-the dragon in bloom. Even the horses they rode looked bred for war, their hooves thudding into the earth with pride.

Her heart thudded harder when one of the guards passed close by her, his dark gaze raking across the line of girls. For a moment, it landed on her.

But he said nothing. Just moved on.

Behind her, Aunt Syra's voice was barely a whisper. "Stand tall. You are not here to tremble. You are here to be chosen."

Lily nodded once, subtly.

She had been trained for this moment all her life-to walk with elegance, to speak with restraint, to serve a king not yet met. To become queen in a world where girls were sorted like livestock: some into homes of farmers, some to be wives of merchants, and a rare few, the rarest of all, were trained from birth to become brides of royalty.

"You'll be fine," said Uncle Taren, stepping closer and adjusting the embroidered sash around her waist. His usually stern face softened for just a moment. "You have more grace in your little finger than all the village girls combined. He'll see that."

He.

The King.

Raven of House Valemir.

The Man-turned-king, crowned only months before, when his father's sudden death sent rumors rippling through the empire like a storm over still water. Twenty-five years old, forged in battle, raised in shadow. They said he had eyes like stormglass and a voice like iron breaking. That he ruled with silence and looked upon everyone else as pawns.

They said he was ruthless

And now, he needed a queen.

Not a consort. Not a temporary alliance. A true queen-the first in a decade.

The empire had waited.

Now, the lilies would bloom.