Amy's PoV:

If there was ever a moment I felt like I'd accidentally walked into the wrong fairytale - this was it.

The sun was too perfect, the sky too blue, and the smell of fresh-cut grass had that weird, elite kind of crispness that makes you feel like your shoes are too cheap no matter how much you paid for them. This was not just horse racing. This was a royal event - one the king and queen themselves had opened to the entire monarchy.

Which meant: nobility, duchesses, viscounts, international press, photographers, bodyguards... and me. Amy from absolutely nowhere, in vintage heels and borrowed lip gloss.

We'd all been prepped ahead of time: this wasn't just for fun. This was our first appearance - the moment the world outside the palace would see us. For real. Cameras. Crowds. Reporters.

The velvet curtain had officially lifted, and we were the cast.

The venue was a wide stretch of pristine land just outside the village, owned - obviously - by the crown. A racetrack shaped like a soft oval looped around the field, with high white fences and flags fluttering along the edges. The bleachers had been transformed for the event: the royal family's section sat at the highest level, decked in deep red velvet, with cushioned seats that looked more like lounges than stadium chairs. Gold detailing, royal banners - the whole medieval-glam look.

Below them, we were seated in rows of elegant (but clearly second-class) seating. Linen-draped benches, champagne carts rolling through every few rows, and one specific instruction whispered again and again by royal attendants:
"Smile. Always."

I adjusted my dress - pale blue silk, flowy, but tailored to remind me I was now a royal guest and not just a girl who once bought concert tickets off Facebook Marketplace.

My seat was in the second row, just under Queen Isolde and King Theon themselves. They looked like carved statues of old money: regal, unreadable, poised. Frederick, Edmund, Maxwell, and Amelia sat beside them. Frederick in a sleek navy suit, Maxwell in black with a subtle green pattern at the collar (probably designer), Edmund looking vaguely miserable as usual, and Amelia - a literal vision in a floral tea-length dress with pearls woven into her braid.

When she spotted me below, Amelia gave me a shy, barely-there wave. I smiled back, proud and aching for her all at once.

Clarice, Jenny, and a few other girls sat beside me, all stiff and upright like mannequins. Every one of us had been glammed to perfection - hair sprayed, nails buffed, cheeks glowing. We looked like we'd been styled by anxiety.

"Welcome, all," a voice boomed over the field, silencing the champagne chatter. "The Annual Crown Horse Races are about to begin. Our royal guests and young contenders are invited to place their wagers and present their reasoning to Their Majesties."

Oh, right. This wasn't just about watching horses run. We had to make royal-level choices and explain them - in front of the king and queen, and everyone else.

Totally fine. Nothing like high-stakes gambling in front of monarchy to calm your nerves.

A palace attendant walked toward us with a silver tray. On it were six small horse tokens - each one representing a different racer.

I picked up the one shaped like a chestnut stallion with white socks and the number 4 engraved on the base.
Blitzen.

"Careful," Maxwell's voice murmured from above, leaning over slightly. "Blitzen's got spirit, but he's impulsive. Raced twice this year. Fast, but unpredictable."

I tilted my head up at him, smirking. "So... like someone I know?"

He rolled his eyes, fighting a grin. "Pick smart, Amy."

I turned my gaze back toward the field and held the token close. The other girls had started murmuring to each other, some pulling mini notes from their clutch bags - their cheat sheets on the horses.

A royal advisor stepped forward and called my name. "Miss Amy Alvarez. Please approach the royal row."

Here we go.

I stood, holding my breath, and walked the short steps up to the royal box. My heels clicked loudly in the hush.

Queen Isolde regarded me with a gaze so sharp, I felt like I was being scanned like airport luggage. King Theon nodded, face impassive.

I curtsied - low, steady, the way they taught us.

"Your Majesties," I said. "I've selected Blitzen. He's a younger racer, a bit reckless, but if given the right lead, he's quick, determined, and doesn't like losing."

I glanced toward Maxwell, just for a second.

"I chose him because... sometimes the unpredictable ones win. You just have to give them a chance."

A beat of silence.

Then, Queen Isolde raised her eyebrows - not a frown, not quite a smile - but something that felt dangerously like... approval.

King Theon gave a single nod. "Well reasoned."

I stepped back, heart hammering, as the next student was called forward.

Behind me, Maxwell murmured as I sat, "Blitzen better not make me look bad."

I glanced up at him. "Too late. I already make you look good."

He tried to hide his laugh - but failed

The air snapped with energy as the horn blew, the sharp sound slicing through the chatter. Everyone turned to the field, breath held. Horses and riders lined up at the starting gate, their coats gleaming in the sunlight, muscles taut like coiled springs.

"Here we go," Maxwell muttered under his breath above me, leaning forward on the royal bench.

A nobleman three seats down from him adjusted his monocle - yes, an actual monocle - and gave Maxwell a faint, smug smile. "I do hope your pick does better than last year's, Your Highness."

Maxwell gave a practiced royal smile in return. "I plan on winning with a little less... monocle-adjusting and a little more horse knowledge this time."

Several nobles chuckled behind gloved hands. The race hadn't even started, and the competitive tension was already crackling like static.

On the other end of the royal box, Frederick lounged with infuriating ease, a champagne flute in hand, collar slightly open in that artful way that screamed effortless rebellion. His horse token sat untouched beside him.

"Did you even pick a horse?" Maxwell shot at him.

Frederick sipped his drink. "I let my butler decide. I think he said the gray one looked moody and poetic. I thought that sounded like a winner."

Maxwell groaned. "You're impossible."

"And you're adorable when you're nervous," Frederick replied without missing a beat. "Are you sweating? You're sweating."

Maxwell muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "sod off" into his glove.

Queen Adelaide, sitting statuesque in a hat the size of a serving tray, beamed as the gates snapped open - and the horses were off.

The crowd surged to their feet in a wave of silk, satin, and tailored suits.

I leaned forward so far I nearly fell out of my seat.

Blitzen burst ahead immediately, leading the front pack with long, wild strides. His mane caught the wind, and the rider leaned low, pushing him harder. Behind him, a silver-gray mare closed the distance - probably Frederick's "moody" pick - followed by two tall stallions that looked like they'd been carved from thunderclouds.

The commentary booth crackled through the speakers.
"And Blitzen takes the first bend - followed closely by Moonfire and Duchess's Dagger! What a start!"

"Come on, Blitzen," I whispered, gripping the edge of my seat like it was life or death.

"Too early," one of the older noblewomen said smugly. "That pace can't be kept. I give him one more turn."

"Blitzen's reckless," Maxwell agreed, frowning, but I noticed the flicker of pride in his eyes. "But fast."

Frederick lounged further back, watching through dark sunglasses he absolutely didn't need. "I don't know, cousin. He's got that unhinged determination energy. Reminds me of Amy."

I shot him a look. "Thank you?"

"Definitely a compliment," he said with a wink.

The crowd cheered louder as the horses rounded the second bend. Blitzen dropped back - just slightly - and for one tense moment, my heart dropped into my stomach.

Maxwell cursed softly. "I told you-"

But then - as if hearing Maxwell's doubt personally - Blitzen surged forward again, ears pinned, dust flying. He slid into a tight inner track and cut in front of the gray mare, gaining ground.

"He's sprinting!" someone yelled. A few students beside me clutched each other like we were watching a royal wedding and a house fire all at once.

King Leopold finally broke his stoic expression with a broad grin. "Now that's a racer."

"I haven't seen a turn like that since '89," Queen Adelaide said, clapping her gloved hands once, decisively. "This one has teeth."

The final straightaway came into view. All noise faded.

Blitzen thundered ahead.

He passed the leading stallion - took the rail - rider holding tight - neck stretched long -

The crowd roared as he crossed the finish line first, a full length ahead of the others.

I nearly fell backward from my seat.

"He won," I gasped, voice cracking. "He actually-"

"He won," Maxwell confirmed, half in shock. "Holy hell."

"Looks like you owe your butler a drink," he added, glancing at Frederick.

But Frederick just smiled lazily and clinked his glass against his brother's. "Cheers to you, Amy Thompson. The crown's first unpredictable champion."

I was still breathless, champagne forgotten in my hand.

King Leopold stood and raised his arm, signaling to the crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen - a remarkable race! And a fine choice by Miss Thompson and Mr.Jack. Young minds, bold instincts."

A wave of polite applause followed - but I caught Queen Adelaide's sharp, assessing eyes on me, lips slightly pursed... in thought.

I wasn't sure what she saw. But she was definitely looking.

Maxwell leaned toward me, his voice just low enough that no one else could hear.

"Beginner's luck."

I blinked at him, frowning. "You wish."

But before he could smirk back - before I could fire something clever - the air around us changed.

A distant trumpet played. A signal.

And suddenly, like someone flipped a switch, the entire royal box stood up in unison. Polite applause, straight backs. A wall of velvet, lace, and jewels all moving as one.

That's when I saw it - Frederick adjusting the cuff of his jacket, but not looking at me. Maxwell's gaze shifted forward. Formal. Cold. As if the closeness we'd just shared evaporated with the dust of the track.

A silent rule dropped between us: They couldn't talk to us anymore.

Not here. Not now. Not with the press watching.

Oh.

Right. I was just a student again.

And they were them.

A ripple of flashes broke across the box. Paparazzi and official crown media, shoulder-to-shoulder along the lower fences, began calling out names.

"Prince Maxwell, over here!"

"Prince Frederick! Look this way, please-yes, perfect!"

"Miss Thompson, that's your pick? Fantastic!"

Wait-what?

Before I knew it, a camera turned to me. Then another. Then a woman in a soft pink blazer and terrifyingly white teeth stepped right in front of me with a mic.

"You must be Amy Thompson, one of the journaling program student, correct?"

"Yes," I said carefully. "I mean-yes."

"Blitzen was your choice, correct? First place?"

"Uh... yeah. He had guts." I smiled, trying to mimic what I'd seen royals do a dozen times now. "And I figured-why not bet on the underdog?"

She grinned like she was holding a scoop. "Well, congratulations. This marks the first time in the King's Invitational a first-year has predicted the winner."

"Oh. Really?" I said, then winced. "That's... cool?"

"Very cool," she said, scribbling something. "And what are you hoping to achieve in the program, Miss Thompson?"

I hesitated. All around me, other students were being pulled into mini-interviews too, talking about diplomacy, legacy, history.

Me? My brain went to burgers, musicals, and not tripping in heels.

But I lifted my chin. "I want to make something of myself. Something real. Even in a place where everything feels... borrowed."

The journalist tilted her head, impressed. "Interesting phrasing."

Behind her, I caught Frederick glancing my way through his sunglasses again. But he didn't say a word. He simply raised his champagne glass-barely-and gave me a nod.

Maxwell didn't look back at all.

⸻

Inside, the "snacks" were absurd.

I followed the marble path through the gold-trimmed doors and found myself in what could only be described as Versailles if Versailles got a Pinterest board. The "light buffet" was a literal buffet of silver platters and crystal towers holding what I assume were legally classified as food but looked like they'd never been touched by human hands.

Tiny tarts with gold flakes. Shrimp arranged like modern art. Teas in porcelain cups so delicate I held mine like it might explode. A butler offered me something with caviar and edible flowers and I took it out of guilt.

The students were still riding the high of their first media moment. Some of them buzzed about their interviews, or which noble made eye contact with them during the race. A few were clearly already crafting their sound bites for the next article.

While I was terrified of this whole public idea, of showing myself to the people while I am still not sure of who I am.