Ayla Thorn's Arc

Chapter 2 of 5

The morning of the audience, Ayla stood in her room with the pink gown laid out on the bed. Silver thread caught the light along the bodice. Small embroidered flowers ran down the skirt to the hem. She dressed slowly. Every hook mattered. She had signed a debt against this dress, and the only way to pay it was to walk out of the castle promised to the prince. The carriage set her down at the foot of the royal castle. Towers rose above her in pale stone, blue spires sharp against the sky. Girls in silks climbed the steps ahead of her. She counted them. Forty at least, and more carriages behind hers. She lifted her skirt and joined the line. The great hall was already crowded when she entered. Daughters of every house pressed toward the dais, fans open, voices bright. The prince stood among them in a dark coat with gold at the collar. A tall girl in blue had his sleeve. A redhead laughed too loud at his elbow. Ayla did not push forward. She walked the long way around the room and took a place near a window, where the light would find her. She waited. She let one hour pass, then another. She did not fidget. She watched the prince's face. She saw him nod without hearing. She saw him smile without meaning it. She saw the moment his eyes began to drift. When they drifted, she was ready. She was standing alone in the light, one hand resting on the sill, her chin turned three quarters toward him. He looked. He kept looking. Then he crossed the hall. "You are not trying," he said when he reached her. "I am trying," Ayla said. "Just not the same thing they are." His mouth moved. It was almost a real smile. She asked him what he had eaten that morning. He blinked, then answered. She asked what he read when no one made him read it. He answered that too. She did not compliment him. She did not touch his sleeve. She asked questions a man was never asked, and she listened to the answers as if she meant to remember them. She did mean to remember them. They spoke until the candles were lit. The hall had gone quiet around them without her noticing. When she looked up, every girl in the room was watching. The prince turned to the court and raised his hand. He named her. He named her house. He said he had chosen. Ayla curtsied low. Her face did not change. Inside the pink silk, her heart was going hard against her ribs. She had won the hall. She had won the debt. She had not yet won the throne, and now every girl in that room, and every house behind them, knew her name and had a reason to hate it.