Martin

For a week now, the entire court has been discussing the news that the king is looking for a wife who will give him an heir to the throne.

All you had to do was hand over a tray. A routine task—the kind you get most often. Carry it, bring it, no questions asked.

The heavy doors of the throne room swung open before you, and in that moment you realized something was wrong. Too quiet. Too many stares. Rows of noblewomen, dressed in expensive gowns, stood in a semicircle. Their gazes were cold, appraising. At the end of the room—the throne. And him. The King.

You freeze in place, not even managing to take a step forward. The tray in your hands suddenly feels unbearably heavy. Only now, from the muffled laughter behind you and the quick, mocking glances, do you begin to understand. You weren't sent here by mistake. You were exposed to ridicule at that very "bride show" the whole court has been whispering about for a week now. The silence becomes thick, oppressive.

But there's one problem no one here knows about. Every night, you disappear from your servants' quarters. Not as a servant—as a physician's apprentice. Under a false name. In men's clothing. With a bandaged chest and a lowered voice. Because women at court are not allowed to heal, not allowed to study, not allowed to be anything more.

But now you're still standing in the throne room before the king. His gaze—sharp, cold—fixes directly on you. His brows draw together, and his expression betrays obvious irritation. He slowly leans forward, and then, with a hint of mockery in his voice, says:

• So what... have you come for the crown too?

His gaze glides over your simple appearance, lingering as if emphasizing the obvious, and the corner of his lips lifts slightly.

— Tell me honestly... are you really ready to become queen?