The imposing Rouse Palace, an architectural jewel of the Kingdom of Aurelthane, stood like a celestial fortress on the slope of the most sacred mountain in the entire human empire. It was not merely a royal residence but a living wall, an unbreakable bastion carved directly into the rock that concealed the heart of the world: the Blood Stone.
To reach it, one had to traverse five circular walls that encircled the entire mountain, each protected by magical and technological systems combining the best of the six human empires. In the War of the Thousand Years, the united armies of the five kingdoms barely managed to breach the second wall... and never touched the third.
Today, however, the five walls opened without bloodshed, without siege. Only enchanted carriages, celestial beasts, and vehicles powered by impossible energies passed through their arches with absolute calm. The ancient enemy nations of Aurelthane had returned, but not with swords... but with suitors.
One by one, the five princes arrived at the palace within minutes of each other, as if none were willing to give the advantage of the first greeting. And little by little, they all began to gather in the palace's grand main hall, beneath domes carved in red crystal and enchanted mosaics that whispered prophecies to those who knew how to listen.
A young man with golden hair, styled with surgical precision, was already there. His ice-blue eyes and fine silver-framed glasses gave him a cold, perfect, almost inhuman appearance. His white suit with blue details spoke of diplomacy, science, and mechanical elegance.Brainly
He observed analytically the next to arrive.
He was a young man with short black hair, sporting a military cut that honored his homeland. His muscular body, firm steps, bare chest under a light cape... everything about him screamed that he was a pure product of the Warrior Kingdom. A barbarian, thought the first.
Zarek von Vireon, prince of Vereon, was the first to speak.College of Arts and Science+3Project Gutenberg+3Archivo de Internet+3
—It is an honor to be in your presence, victorious prince Dren Backstell.
Dren barely looked at him.
—And you are...?College of Arts and Science
—Allow me to introduce myself. I am the crown prince Zarek von Vireon —said Zarek, knowing in advance that for someone like Dren, formal names held as much importance as the weather.
Dren narrowed his eyes.
—Are you the one they call the Holy Death? I imagined you... different.
—So, the young prince Blackstell... —Zarek tried to continue, but was interrupted by a firm voice.
—You may call me only Dren —he said, crossing his arms.
Zarek adjusted his glasses.earlymoderntexts.com
—Very well. In that case, you may call me only Zarek. I'm surprised you know of someone as humble as me.
—Humble? —Dren stepped forward, firm, defiant. Zarek tensed. In his kingdom, no one approached him like that without fearing for their life.
The way he walked, how he held his gaze, was a direct provocation. Zarek felt the urge to tear him apart right there.
—Your legend has nothing humble about it. I wonder... if I killed you right now in this hall... would your kingdom give me its throne?
—We don't have such... barbaric customs.
—From my point of view, you ascended to the throne the same way I did... only by killing hundreds of thousands more.
Zarek sharpened an emotionless smile.
—Then, if I am the one who kills you, here and now... would I be king of your swamp?
—Yes —said Dren without hesitation—. That simple. That easy.
The atmosphere grew dense. The floor seemed to vibrate beneath their feet, but before anything happened, a loud yawn cut the tension like a sharp knife.
Everyone turned to see a young man with snow-white, tousled hair, dressed in soft, comfortable robes that seemed more appropriate for a bedroom than a court. He walked with the laziness of someone who had absolutely nothing to prove to the world.
—Such poor manners from you two —he said in a calm, almost bored voice—. It hasn't even been an hour, and you've already destroyed the impeccable floor of this magnificent hall...
Zarek bowed.
—Welcome, immortal prince Narel Vhalen.
—Just Narel, please —replied the newcomer, looking around with disinterest—. I heard that here everyone calls each other by their first name. Isn't that right, Prince Dren?
—That's right... Narel —replied Dren, who approached with a defiant smile and extended his hand.
Narel looked at him without much interest but accepted the gesture. Upon taking his hand, he felt extraordinary pressure: Dren's strength. As if a bear were squeezing another's paw.
It seemed almost tender to him. Like a baby squeezing an adult's finger. It wasn't something that could harm him... but it was a provocative gesture.
Narel returned the squeeze, using exactly the same strength. Dren frowned and squeezed harder. Narel smiled.
A crater began to form beneath their feet due to the invisible pressure, while the magical floor of the hall trembled as if it couldn't withstand the duel between these two monsters.
But before the place collapsed, a soft, high-pitched voice interrupted them:
—Are you going to continue with this ridiculous strength contest, or will you allow the palace floor to survive at least one more day?
The voice came from a small young man, with a delicate face, fair skin, and large round glasses that made his expression seem eternally disappointed. He wore a white wizard's robe with silver edges, and with a simple gesture of his hand, the cracked floor instantly regenerated.
—Welcome, wizard prince Mayron of Lunethra —greeted Zarek.
—Just Mayron, please —he replied courteously as another young man appeared behind him.
He wore an impeccable black suit, white gloves, and his hair and eyes were equally dark. His movements were elegant, almost theatrical. Everything about him exuded nobility, danger... and beauty.
—He is Prince Azrael von Fan Caelestis —said Mayron.
Azrael greeted everyone with a perfect bow... but avoided looking at Zarek.
Behind them, a man with black hair, pale skin, and red eyes —clearly a citizen of Aurelthane— watched silently. With a grave and polite voice, he stepped forward:
—Young princes, you will understand that we did not expect your visit so soon. However, Princess Elizabeth is already in the throne room and awaits you. The council has gathered, and since you have had the courtesy to visit this humble kingdom, we consider it prudent to hold a special event and officially announce the rules that will govern this sublime selection.
Dren, impatient as always, walked past without looking at the butler.
—Prince Blackstell —the man called without raising his voice—. This palace is vast. If you proceed like this, not only would you be disrespecting us... I assure you that you would never find the throne room.
Dren stopped.
—Was that a threat?
—Was it? —replied the butler with an enigmatic smile.
Dren looked at him... and then smiled.
—You're right. This is not my kingdom. I must be more considerate. Please, good man... could you lead me to Princess Elizabeth? I long to meet her. Her beauty is legendary... even in my lands.
—How pleasant it is to deal with such intelligent people —said the butler, with a measured bow—. Please, follow me.
______________________________________________________________________
Elizabeth's hands were sweating beneath the delicate silk gloves that covered her skin. In just a few minutes, she would face those terrible beasts disguised as princes for the very first time.
—Why did they arrive ahead of schedule? —she murmured to herself.
It made no sense. In every single one of the memories from the previous Elizabeths, the five princes had always arrived exactly on her fourteenth birthday. But now… something had changed.
She couldn't remain trapped in what should have been.She had to face what was.
She took a deep breath. Once, twice, three times, trying to find in her sea of memories some useful hint—some version of herself who had gone through this same situation.
Nothing. Empty.
She sighed and straightened her posture. If there was one thing she was good at, it was improvising.
She gathered her courage, donned her best princess smile… and looked toward the great door like a lone warrior calmly awaiting the arrival of her enemy.
The doors opened with solemn grace.
A handsome man with black hair, crimson eyes, and impeccable posture stepped halfway into the hall. With a ceremonial tone, he announced the names of the princes, one by one. They, following the etiquette, approached Elizabeth without saying a word, took her silk-gloved hand, and pressed a kiss to it.
A gesture reserved only for those who were legitimate candidates for her hand.
Then they took their places on the thrones prepared for them, several steps below the central throne, arranged in a semicircle. A formation that seemed, to Elizabeth, suspiciously symbolic… as if they meant to trap her between elegant smiles and sharpened ambition.
The Royal Council, for their part, was already gathered, divided along both sides of the hall.
One of the elders rose with effort and slowly walked to stand beside her. Then he unrolled a seemingly endless scroll and, with a solemn voice—amplified by the magic of the hall so that it echoed to the farthest corner—he began to speak:
—Your Highness, young princes. I shall now read the official Rules of Selection. Though the process will officially begin in four days—on the occasion of Her Highness's fourteenth birthday—we find it prudent to disclose the regulations of this election, which will extend over exactly three years, ending on the day of her seventeenth birthday, when her wedding shall be celebrated.
Everyone fell silent. Elizabeth already knew every word on that scroll. She had heard it too many times in too many lives. Even so, she had to pretend surprise.
—First rule: Her Highness Princess Elizabeth must reside for a minimum of one month and a maximum of six months in the realm of each prince.
Elizabeth silently agreed. She would do just that. Stay away from Aurelthane as long as possible, far from the local nobility that wished her dead.
—Second rule: The specific duration in each realm shall be decided solely by the princess.
—Perfect —she thought—. The more time away, the better the odds of surviving.
—Third: The remaining time, until the wedding, will be spent in her homeland, where she shall reflect on her experiences and make her final decision.
—Fourth: The princes may accompany Her Highness in the realms she visits, provided that: one, they do not violate any local law; two, they do not assault the hosting prince; and three, they do not directly interfere with the time shared between the princess and said host.
Elizabeth noticed some of the princes exchanging glances.
Zarek smiled imperceptibly.The rule didn't forbid confrontations among themselves—only those involving the host prince directly. A very convenient legal loophole.
—Fifth: If during these three years Princess Elizabeth dies, the selection will be nullified, and a new king shall be chosen from among the nobles of Aurelthane.
The princes' expressions hardened.
Yes… they already suspected this. Protecting her was now a political obligation. At least, until one of them was crowned.
—Sixth: If one or more of the princes dies during the process, his kingdom will be eliminated from the selection and may not present another candidate.
Dren frowned.
—Damn Aurelians… they want us to kill each other —he thought.
—Seventh: If all the princes die, Her Highness may freely choose a member of the Aurelian nobility as her lawful husband.
Elizabeth blinked.
A dark and oddly logical idea surfaced in her mind.
—If they all die… the Council would have no reason to kill me. And I could choose a local noble, as if it were an internal marriage. As if… I were a man and took a duchess. It would be safer for everyone.
The problem was how.
—I haven't even killed a chicken in my life… how the hell am I supposed to assassinate these five monsters?
The elder solemnly rolled up the scroll.
—The order in which Her Highness will visit each realm shall be decided by her.
A murmur rose among the attendants. All eyes turned to Elizabeth.
She stood up, smoothed her dress with a trembling hand that no one noticed, and raised her voice with a confidence she did not fully feel, but could simulate perfectly:
—We shall decide the order of visitation with a tournament. I will visit the realms in the order they place in the competition.
The elder blinked, completely surprised.
—W-what kind of tournament… Your Highness?
Elizabeth smiled with mischief—an expression that did not belong to a fourteen-year-old girl, but suited her dangerously well.
—What kind, you ask? A combat tournament, of course.
A shiver ran through the hall.
For the first time, the princes looked at her as something more than a piece in the game.
Now they knew she was a player, too.
—Her Highness Princess Elizabeth Rousendahal has spoken! —the elder announced, regaining his composure—. The day after her fourteenth birthday, the Selection Tournament will be held. The winner will have the honor of receiving her first.
There was a brief silence. Then the elder turned toward the hall:
—And now, ladies and gentlemen… shall we prepare for an exquisite banquet?
He turned to Elizabeth with a reverent bow. She stepped down from the pedestal where her throne rested. As she passed by him, she whispered in a cold and firm voice:
—Tell the council… not to try killing me again. No foreigner will usurp this throne.
The elder looked at her, stunned. And then, as if a storm of dark pride erupted within him, a smile slowly spread across his aged face.
This was not the foolish girl they expected.
She was the heir.
—You have my word, Your Highness —he replied, following her to the banquet, his face marked by a twisted joy he didn't bother to hide.
To be continued...