Elowen's POV:
The moment I returned to the shared sitting chamber, I knew I would not escape notice.
Selene was waiting.
Not pacing.
Not anxious.
Waiting.
Afternoon light filtered through the tall arched windows, casting pale gold across upholstered chairs and polished floors. Several of the other candidates had gathered as well, their voices low and conspiratorial.
Selene rose the moment she saw me.
"Where were you?"
The question was light. Casual.
Too casual.
I removed my gloves slowly, placing them neatly on the side table before answering.
"His Highness wished to speak with me."
The room quieted — just slightly.
Not enough to be obvious.
Enough to be felt.
Selene's expression did not change immediately. But something flickered behind her eyes.
"Oh?" she said. "About what?"
"Elowen," one of the other girls breathed softly, clearly listening now.
I met Selene's gaze directly.
"He believes I am interfering," I said plainly. "By directing his attention toward you."
A beat of silence.
Selene blinked.
"You told him that?"
"I told him the truth."
"And what did he say?"
I hesitated.
Across the room, two figures leaned subtly closer together.
Lady Mariette Duvall sat elegantly on a chaise, posture impeccable, expression composed. Beside her sat Lady Marisella Valecrest, bright-eyed and alert, clearly eager for information.
They were not speaking loudly.
But they were listening carefully.
"He said," I continued, choosing my words carefully, "that I presume too much about where his attention lies."
Selene's fingers tightened slightly at her sides.
"And where does it lie?" she asked.
I offered a faint smile. "With those who desire the crown."
It was meant to reassure.
It did not fully succeed.
Selene studied me a moment longer.
"He summoned you privately," she said, softer now. "Not me."
The words were not accusatory.
But they carried weight.
"I did not ask him to," I replied gently.
"No," Selene agreed quickly. "Of course not."
Too quickly.
The space between us shifted — not broken, but thinner.
"I only wish to make this easier for you," I said. "You want this, Selene. You should stand at the forefront."
Selene exhaled slowly.
"Yes," she admitted. "I do."
Honest.
Raw.
And there it was — the smallest crack.
Because wanting meant fearing loss.
And fearing loss meant noticing competition.
"I am glad you told me," Selene added, though her voice carried a new carefulness. "I would rather hear it from you."
I nodded.
Across the room, Marisella leaned closer to Mariette.
"So he notices her," Marisella murmured.
Mariette did not look at me.
She was watching Selene instead.
"Men like His Highness," Mariette said quietly, "are rarely drawn to what is offered too easily."
Marisella frowned. "Then what does that mean?"
"It means," Mariette replied smoothly, "that distance can be as powerful as pursuit."
Marisella considered that.
Mariette's lips curved slightly — not warmly.
Calculating.
"You did very well at breakfast," Mariette continued. "But visible success invites rivalry. You must learn to control the tempo."
Marisella straightened subtly. "You think I was too forward?"
"I think," Mariette said gently, "that you were noticeable."
The compliment sounded kind.
It was not.
Across the chamber, Lady Arabella Virec stood near the balcony doors, bathed in afternoon light.
She wore white today — pure, unbothered — embroidered with gold falcons that caught the sun as she moved. Her golden hair was styled simply but flawlessly, framing a face of serene composure.
She was not whispering.
She was not strategizing openly.
She watched.
Calm.
Aloof.
Certain.
When one of the younger candidates approached her nervously and asked, "Do you think His Highness favors anyone yet?" Arabella smiled faintly.
"Favor is temporary," she said softly. "Blood is not."
Her gaze drifted toward the distant throne dais visible through the tall archway beyond.
"I have known him since childhood," she added lightly. "Some bonds do not require competition."
The statement settled heavily in the air.
Marisella stiffened.
Selene's posture straightened.
I felt the shift immediately.
Arabella did not need to fight.
She believed she had already won.
Mariette's eyes flickered toward Arabella — assessing, not threatened.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
"Confidence," Mariette murmured under her breath to Marisella, "is most dangerous when it believes itself untouchable."
Marisella followed her gaze.
"And is she?"
Mariette smiled faintly.
"No one is."
Across the room, Selene turned back to me.
"You will not withdraw completely, will you?" she asked quietly. "Not to the point where he thinks you weak?"
My eyes softened.
"I am not weak."
"No," Selene said, almost fiercely. "You are not."
But jealousy, once planted, does not vanish.
It waits.