Morning arrived with ceremonial precision. The palace courtyard had been transformed. A long table stood beneath a silk canopy. Chairs were arranged in a half circle facing the throne platform where the King and Queen sat. Advisors lined the sides, parchment ready. Servants moved quietly, placing sealed scrolls upon a silver tray.
The first trial had begun.
Anastasia stood beside Cinderella near the outer column. Drizella lingered slightly behind them, unusually serious. Even she understood the weight of today.
The five candidates entered together.
Their gowns were simpler this time. No glittering distractions. Today was not about charm.
Queen Seraphina rose.
"The first trial," she announced, "is Judgment."
The stewardess stepped forward and handed each candidate a sealed scroll.
"Within these scrolls," the Queen continued, "are real matters currently faced by our kingdom. Disputes. Shortages. Conflicts. You will read. You will consider. Then you will present your decision and reasoning."
The courtyard grew still.
Lady Eleanor broke her seal first. Her eyes scanned quickly, confidence flickering.
Lady Maribelle read more slowly, brows tightening.
Lady Isolde's expression grew thoughtful.
Lady Clarisse shifted her weight as she read.
Lady Helena's lips pressed together in concentration.
Prince Adrien stood to the side of the throne, hands clasped behind his back once more. His gaze moved from one candidate to another, unreadable.
Anastasia watched him instead.
There was no mockery in his eyes. No impatience. Only quiet attention. The first candidate stepped forward.
"My case concerns a land dispute between two farming families," Lady Eleanor began. Her voice was steady. She proposed dividing the land equally, emphasizing peace and fairness.
Murmurs of approval followed.
Next came Lady Maribelle. Her case involved a merchant accused of raising grain prices during a drought. She suggested strict penalties to discourage greed.
The council nodded thoughtfully.
One by one, the candidates presented their judgments. Some firm. Some cautious. Some surprisingly insightful.
When Lady Isolde proposed visiting the disputed land personally before deciding, a faint spark lit in the King's eyes.
Anastasia noticed.
And she noticed something else.
Each time compassion was mentioned, Adrien's posture shifted slightly. Not visibly. But enough for her to see. The trial was not simply about intelligence. It was about balance. Strength without cruelty. Kindness without weakness. As the final candidate finished, the Queen rose again.
"Well done," she said evenly. "But judgment is easiest when written on parchment."
Her gaze sharpened. "Tomorrow, you will face reality."
A ripple of anticipation moved through the courtyard. The first trial had begun.
And already, the future felt closer than anyone was ready for.
The next morning air carried a brittle chill as the palace prepared for the continuation of the first trial.
Today's case would not be parchment and theory. It would be real. A land dispute between two brothers from a nearby village had escalated to the point of violence. The court had delayed judgment deliberately, saving it for this trial.
The candidates were to hear both sides and propose a resolution on site. But before the procession even formed, Anastasia noticed something else.
Prince Adrien looked unwell.
Not dramatically so. Not enough for anyone careless to see. But she noticed the paleness beneath his composed expression. The slight delay in his responses. The faint tightness around his eyes.
When he cleared his throat, the sound was rough. He was ill. Yet he stood fully dressed in formal attire, posture straight as ever.
The Queen announced the day's objective. The King emphasized fairness and decisiveness. The five candidates listened attentively, eager. None of them looked twice at the prince. Or perhaps they did and chose not to dwell on it.
Their focus was on the opportunity.
On outshining one another.
At the village clearing, the two brothers stood on opposite sides of a narrow stretch of land. One argued that their late father had promised him the fertile half. The other claimed equal inheritance.
Voices were sharp. Pride louder than reason.
The candidates stepped forward one by one to question them.
Lady Eleanor proposed dividing the land precisely in half.
Lady Maribelle suggested selling it entirely and splitting the profit.
Lady Isolde asked about the father's written will.
Lady Clarisse attempted to calculate crop yield potential.
Lady Helena focused on the emotional rift between the brothers.
Throughout it all, Adrien stood beside the King, listening. He asked one quiet question about whether either brother would accept shared cultivation. His voice remained calm.
But Anastasia saw the faint tremor in his fingers when he folded his hands behind his back. She stepped aside and approached the Queen discreetly.
"Your Majesty," she murmured, "the prince appears unwell."
The Queen's gaze flickered briefly toward her son. "I am aware," she replied evenly.
"Should he not rest?" Anastasia asked carefully.
"A ruler cannot retreat from duty due to fever," the Queen answered. "Responsibility does not wait for comfort."
The words were steady. Not harsh. Just absolute. Anastasia fell silent.
When the candidates finished presenting their solutions, debate continued among advisors. The brothers argued again. Tension thickened. Adrien swayed almost imperceptibly before steadying himself. The candidates did not notice.
They were discussing inheritance principles.
Anastasia found a brief moment to step near him under the shade of a tree.
"You should return to the palace," she whispered urgently. "You are not well."
He looked at her, surprised but gentle.
"I am fine."
"You are not," she insisted. "Please. Just today."
A faint smile touched his lips. "My duty matters more than my body. And certainly more than my feelings."
The quiet certainty in his voice hurt more than any complaint would have.
"Do not worry," he added softly.
How easily he dismissed himself.
As though exhaustion were trivial.
As though pain were irrelevant.
Anastasia felt her chest tighten.
She finally understood what Rowan meant.
A prince did not belong to himself.
His strength was expected.
His weakness invisible.
And standing there, pale but unyielding, Adrien was not allowed to simply be a man. He had to be the future king.
By the time everyone returned to the palace, twilight had already swallowed the sky.
The candidates retired to their chambers, whispering about strategies. The King and Queen withdrew in composed silence. Servants hurried quietly through corridors lit with low lamps.
Anastasia could not rest.
She had watched Adrien grow paler as the day went on. Watched him conceal it with discipline so practiced it frightened her.
Finally, gathering courage she had avoided for days, she made her way toward his chamber. The hallway was quiet. She stopped just before his door, hand hovering above the wood.
Voices came from inside.
"...you worried too much and pushed yourself too far," Rowan was saying.
A tired exhale answered him.
"I am fine," Adrien replied, though the strength in his voice was gone now.
"You are not," Rowan insisted. "You keep worrying about Anastasia, why don't you talk with her. She isn't weak, you know."
There was a pause.
Then Adrien spoke again, softer.
"I made a mistake."
Silence.
"I worried so much about protecting her from the truth," he continued, "that I became the very thing that hurt her."
Anastasia's breath caught.
"I never meant to betray her," he said quietly. "But she must have felt deceived. Heartbroken."
Rowan's tone gentled. "She was hurt. Yes. But not because you are a prince."
"Then why?"
"Because you matter to her."
A long silence followed.
"I thought," Adrien admitted, voice strained, "if I carried it alone, it would hurt her less."
Rowan sighed softly. "You cannot protect someone by shutting them out."
Footsteps approached the door. Anastasia stepped back just in time as it opened. Rowan paused when he saw her.
For a brief second, understanding passed between them. He gave a small nod and left without a word. The corridor fell quiet again.
Anastasia stood frozen.
Then she knocked gently and entered.
Adrien was lying on the bed, coat discarded, sleeves rolled slightly. He looked tired. Truly tired. Surprised, he straightened. "Anastasia."

She held out a small vial and cloth. "The royal physician prescribed this. For fever."
He blinked.
"I thought you said you were fine," she said softly.
A faint, embarrassed smile appeared. "It seems I exaggerated."
She stepped closer and placed the medicine beside him. Their fingers brushed briefly. His skin was warm.
"You should rest," she murmured again.
This time, he did not argue. And as he drank the medicine and leaned back against the bed, some of the strain left his face.
For the first time in days, he looked... lighter.
Not because he was healed.
But because she had come.
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SIDE NOTE: Next chapter is gonna be that chapter. Be ready. 😉
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