Amy's PoV:

The bathroom was quiet except for the steady drip of the faucet and the soft scrape of fabric as I peeled off my day clothes. I sighed, finally ready to wash off the heaviness that clung to me like a second skin. The water was warm, almost hot, and it promised a momentary escape from the cold stone walls and endless expectations.

I let the water run over me, closing my eyes and trying to imagine I was anywhere but here, but once I closed my eyes, the flashbacks came. Haunting my mind. I opened my eyes again, shaking my head and waiting for the water to run through, hopefully I was washing these bad memories too.

When I finally stepped out, I wrapped myself in a soft, white towel that was already included in the bathroom and pulled on the simple yet elegant uniform the program provided—pristine white blouse, navy skirt, and polished shoes. The fact it was a skirt made my insides twitch and crumble.

Do they not have pants? At these age and year how can they not provide pants for the uniform.

Also it felt strange, like I was slipping into a role not quite mine yet, not quite me either.

Just as I was smoothing the collar, a sharp knock echoed at my door.

"Miss Thompson, dinner is about to be served. Please be ready to join the others downstairs."

It was the formal, unyielding voice —stern and precise. I took a deep breath, combed my hair and let it fall to my shoulders, to protect me and my face from anything. I do not feel courageous enough to walk around with a bun or ponytail.

The grand staircase loomed ahead, its polished banister gleaming under the chandelier light. When I reached the bottom floor, the atmosphere shifted. Maids glided silently, their uniforms spotless; guards stood motionless at every corner, eyes alert. The air was thick with a mixture of elegance and tension.

The dining hall was vast, with long tables set with fine china and sparkling crystal glasses. It smelled faintly of roasted meat and fresh bread.

All the students were already seated, some chatting nervously, others scanning the room as if trying to memorize every face. I recognized a few from orientation — the ones who'd laughed at Octavia's seriousness, the ones who whispered behind their hands.

Octavia stood at the head of the table, her posture rigid, commanding attention.

"Boys and girls," Octavia's voice cut through the murmurs like a sharp blade. "You will now introduce yourselves. Meet your opponents, because from this moment forward, that's exactly what you are. Someone here will take your place. Only seven will be chosen. So don't play around. Yes, trust and alliances matter—but be very careful who you befriend. They might be the ones to replace you."

Her words hit us like a cold splash of water. Faces that had been hopeful, curious, even eager moments ago suddenly hardened with the weight of reality. We had walked into a competition of survival without even knowing it.

Octavia gestured sharply toward the left side of the table. "Very well. Let's begin. Left to right. You—please."

A stunning blonde girl rose smoothly. Her posture was flawless, her gaze sharp with confidence.

"Hi! I'm Lydia Campbell," she said, her English accent crisp and poised. "I studied at Oxford. Out of ten candidates, I was one of the few chosen to be here."

"Very well. Carry on," Octavia said, barely concealing a hint of approval as her eyes flicked to the boy beside Lydia—the same one who had mocked her earlier.

He smirked but straightened, clearing his throat. "Jack Wallis, twenty years old. Harvard University."

"Elizabeth Young, twenty, from Notre-Dame de Clairval, France."

One by one, the names and schools rolled out like a litany of prestige and ambition.

"Clarice Beaumont, Institut Jean-Baptiste Rousseau."

"Jennie Han, twenty-one, Yeongwon Institute."

"Matthias Gruber, twenty-two, Kaiserhof Akademie."

The room was thick with a mixture of pride and unspoken tension. Everyone spoke with practiced confidence, delivering rehearsed reasons for why they deserved to be here. But beneath the polished words, I could sense the nervous energy and the fragile hopes that tethered us all.

Then it was my turn.

I stood slowly, my heart pounding in my chest like a drum. The eyes of the room settled on me.

"Hum—Amy Thompson, twenty," I said, forcing my voice to stay steady. "Westfield University."

I caught a few nods, a couple of curious glances, and maybe—just maybe—a flicker of respect. But I knew it wasn't about being liked here. It was about surviving.

A few heads nodded in approval; a few eyes lingered longer than necessary. I sat back down, wondering what secrets they all hid beneath their polished exteriors.

Octavia nodded and moved down the line, her gaze sharp and unyielding.

"Next, please."

A tall young man with dark hair stood, his expression calm but serious.

"Felix Morales, twenty-one, Universidad Autónoma de Madrid."

A soft murmur of acknowledgment passed through the room.

"Charlotte Bennett, nineteen, Trinity College Dublin," said a girl with a bright smile but eyes that held determination.

Octavia continued with clinical precision.

"Rafael Devereux, twenty-two, École Normale Supérieure."

He gave a slight bow, his French accent crisp and confident.

"Simone Rinaldi, twenty, Università di Bologna."

Her voice was melodic, with just a trace of an Italian lilt.

"And last but not least," Octavia glanced around the table, "Liam O'Connor, twenty-one, University of Edinburgh."

The final student gave a modest nod, shoulders squared, ready for what lay ahead.

Octavia's eyes scanned the room once more, settling briefly on each of us.

"Now that you all have introduced yourselves, remember this is not just a program. It is a proving ground. You will be challenged in ways you never imagined. Excellence is expected, and only those who truly embody the crown's values will be worthy of its trust. But for now...just eat"

A hush fell over the room. The weight of her words settled deep into every one of us.

As Octavia stepped away from the long dining table, her presence fading into the shadows of the grand room, the tension in the air began to loosen—just a little. Plates clinked softly, and the murmur of voices grew as the students began to eat.

Jennie, with her warm smile and lively eyes, leaned slightly toward me. "Hey, Amy, right? I just wanted to say, I love your red hair. It's so unique. It really stands out."

Clarice nodded eagerly beside her, twirling a strand of her dark hair. "Yeah, it's magnifique. You don't see many hair like that ."

"Yeah, is it real?" Jennie asked

I offered a small, shy smile. "Thanks. Yeah... it's real."

Jennie giggled softly. "Well, it suits you. You should own it."

Clarice grinned. "We should stick together, you know? It's good to have friends here."

I nodded, feeling a flicker of relief. Even though I wasn't much of a talker, it was nice not to feel completely invisible.

Jennie winked. "Don't worry. We'll keep an eye on things. This whole place is a bit intimidating, but together, maybe it won't be so bad."

A small alliance was quietly forming at the table, a tiny spark of warmth amid the uncertainty.

As the plates emptied and soft chatter filled the room, Jennie leaned closer to Clarice, her voice dropping just enough to sound conspiratorial.

"Okay, so Lydia... she's definitely not here to make friends. That confidence? It's more like a warning."

Clarice nodded, eyes scanning the table discreetly. "Agreed. And don't forget Jack Wallis. I caught him sneering at some of us earlier. He's the type who'd step on anyone to get ahead."

Jennie glanced toward Rafael, who was quietly observing the room with that cool, calculating gaze. "And Rafael... There's something about him. Like he's got plans we can't see yet."

Clarice folded her hands on the table. "We need to watch them—and each other. This isn't just about friendship. It's survival."

Jennie smiled, but it wasn't warm. "Exactly. How about we make a promise? To help each other out no matter what? If any of those three start playing dirty, we stick together."

Clarice extended her hand. "Deal."

I looked between them, sensing the gravity beneath their words. This was more than just a competition—it was a battlefield. And alliances like these could mean the difference between winning and losing.

I found myself silently hoping I was ready for what was coming.

"Hey, girls, what are you whispering about?" Moses Mugisha's voice broke through the quiet, casual but carrying that easy charm. He was from Mbale College, tall with flawless skin and a smile that seemed to light up the whole room.

Jessie and Clarice exchanged glances, trying not to look caught, but the warmth in their eyes didn't fade.

"Already making plans?" Felix teased from across the table, his eyes twinkling as he winked at Jennie.

"As if you had anything to do with it," Jennie shot back, a sly grin spreading across her face. Her confidence was effortless, and Felix's teasing only seemed to make her smile wider.

"Con carácter, así me gustan mis chicas," Felix said smoothly, turning on the charm with a playful wink. Feisty. That's how I like my girls.

Before anyone could respond, Jennie suddenly snapped back in rapid Korean, "Ashh kkeojyeo, baboya!" (아쉬 꺼져, 바보야 ! /Get lost, stupid!)

I didn't understand a word, but Felix's smirk shifted into a knowing smile and a slow nod, clearly impressed and amused.

The whole table burst into light laughter, the tension easing just a bit, but I felt the undercurrent of alliances and rivalries weaving tighter beneath the surface.

I wondered how much of this game I was ready for—and how fast I'd need to learn to play it.

After dinner, the air in the mansion shifted. Formality melted just enough for laughter to creep in, small conversations bloomed, and for the first time that evening, the grand walls of Northwald didn't feel so intimidating.

"Alright," Lydia grinned as she stretched her arms overhead, "I vote we find somewhere cozy and pretend we're all friends before the competition ruins our lives."

Clarice gave a dramatic sigh, flipping her hair. "Might as well. We're stuck with each other for a year."

The group naturally drifted into the main living room—a regal space bathed in golden lamplight and the amber glow of a roaring fireplace. It looked like something out of a storybook: plush emerald and maroon velvet couches, dark wood panels that smelled faintly of cedar, shelves of old books and porcelain trinkets, and above the mantel, a massive oil painting of Queen Adelaide in her younger years. She looked fierce, her eyes piercing through centuries.

Some of the students began to lounge on the couches and rugs like kids at a sleepover, boots kicked off and jackets slung over arms.

I just want to go to bed, aren't they tired? I think I have jet lag.

Felix had taken over one of the armchairs, legs crossed casually, watching everyone with the amused expression of someone already calculating alliances.

Moses Mugisha flopped onto a deep green couch near the fire. "Hey girls, what are you whispering about, again?" he asked with a playful grin that revealed perfect teeth and a smooth, confident air. His Ugandan accent rolled naturally with warmth.

None of us anwsered.

Simone was pulling out a deck of cards and Jack was suggesting an icebreaker game, a knock came at the massive double doors.

We all turned.

A maid in a crisp navy uniform entered silently, gliding like a ghost across the thick rug. In her hands, she carried a silver tray stacked with envelopes. One by one, she placed them on the coffee table in the center of the room, each envelope sealed with the deep red wax stamp of the Royal Crest — a crowned lion with a rose in its mouth.

The laughter stopped. Everyone sat up a little straighter.

Octavia appeared in the doorway as if summoned by tension. "This," she said crisply, "is your first assignment. You each have been given a profile—your first royal subject."

She walked in slowly, looking each of us in the eye. "You will have one week to write your first royal essay. The task is simple: tell the world why your assigned noble is beloved by the people."

A beat.

"Or... why they should be."

A few students exchanged glances. One of them muttered under their breath, "Oh god..."

Octavia's heels clicked sharply on the floor as she circled the room like a hawk. "Remember, this is not a school essay. This is a test of precision. Persuasion. Insight. You are not just writing—" she paused for dramatic effect "—you are crafting legacy."

She nodded once to the maid, who disappeared silently.

"Choose your words carefully," Octavia added. "The palace reads everything."

Then, without another word, she turned and exited the room, her presence leaving behind the scent of roses and fear.

I looked at the envelope in front of me. My name was written in elegant black ink, and beneath it, one word:

Confidential.

My fingers trembled slightly as I opened it, and inside... there it was. A name I didn't recognize.

My royal subject.

All around me, others were reading, flipping through attached profiles, whispering names. Some looked relieved. Some confused. Some... terrified.

Jessie was already scribbling notes in a little leather notebook. Jack rubbed his forehead, groaning, "You've got to be kidding me. I got him?"

I looked back at my page. There was a photo attached, a brief bio, and a short set of press clippings.

I swallowed hard.

So this was it. No more cozy fireplaces. No more playful jokes.

This was where the game truly began.

Let's do it.

Frederick Montgomery.