THE GILDED CAGE
The man in the mirror was a stranger, a hollow echo of the vibrant youth he'd once been. Sapphire eyes, weary yet alert, met his in the reflection, their usual sparkle dimmed by the weight of responsibility. He ran a hand through his moonlight-colored hair, the silken strands catching the light of the flickering candles that illuminated his bedchamber. The intricate braids, carefully woven by his valet that morning, now hung loose, a few strands escaping to frame his face, highlighting the elegant point of his ears, the hallmark of his elven heritage. Eighteen years had etched lines of responsibility onto a face still strikingly beautiful, one that belied the warrior's spirit he'd been forced to become.
He turned away from the mirror, a sigh escaping his lips as he paced restlessly across the plush carpet. The chamber, spacious and opulent, felt more like a gilded cage than a sanctuary. Tapestries depicting scenes of elven valor and ancient battles adorned the cool, polished stone walls, their vibrant colors contrasting the room's subdued grandeur. Moonlight streamed through the arched windows, casting an ethereal glow upon the plush furnishings and the overflowing bookshelves that lined the walls – a testament to his thirst for knowledge, his deep respect for the wisdom of the past.
He paused before a massive oak bookcase, his fingers trailing across the worn spines of ancient tomes. He inhaled the familiar scent of aged parchment and leather, a comforting aroma that evoked memories of countless hours spent lost in the world of elven lore and history. But even the solace of his beloved books couldn't dispel the unease that gnawed at him.
He touched the sapphire circlet resting upon the table beside his bed, the cool metal a stark reminder of the loss the kingdom had suffered to bring him to this point. A crowned prince, burdened with the weight of expectations, the responsibility of leadership thrust upon him by a cruel twist of fate. He wasn't supposed to be here, wasn't supposed to wear this crown. He'd dreamed of being a knight, a warrior fighting for justice and honor, not an heir apparent trapped in a gilded cage. But fate, it seemed, had other plans.
Eighteen years... the memory of that night surged, a horrifying torrent of blood and betrayal. The palace, once a sanctuary of peace and laughter, echoed with the clash of steel, the screams of the dying, the cries of those he loved, torn from him by the brutal hand of treachery. He was running, hand clasped tightly around Faela's, her silver hair a beacon in the swirling chaos, her terrified eyes pleading for his protection. He remembered the fear in her eyes, the way she'd clung to him, the fierce protectiveness that had surged through him, a desperate vow to keep her safe. She was like a sister to him, and the thought of what she'd endured, alone and pregnant, hunted by those who sought to extinguish her bloodline, filled him with a fresh wave of anger and guilt.
He sank into a plush armchair, the velvet cushions conforming to his weary frame. He closed his eyes, the images of that night flashing behind his eyelids, a haunting reminder of the innocence lost, the future stolen. The whispers of the fallen echoed in his ears, their voices a mournful lament for a kingdom shattered, a family torn asunder.
"This way!" he had urged, pulling her towards a hidden passage, his voice a desperate whisper against the cacophony. They scrambled through the narrow corridor, rough stone scraping their skin, the darkness closing in like a suffocating blanket.
A guttural roar echoed behind them, pursuit closing in. "We have to hurry!" he'd gasped, his grip tightening on Faela's hand, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Fear, cold and sharp, clawed at his throat.
They burst into a moonlit courtyard, the open space a terrifying vulnerability after the maze of corridors. He shoved Faela behind him, his senses on high alert, scanning for any sign of their pursuers. They had to reach the hidden door, concealed by a tapestry of interwoven vines. He fumbled with the latch, fingers trembling with urgency.
"Hurry, Brandir!" Her voice, a desperate plea, spurred him on.
The door creaked open, revealing a passage that descended into the earth. They plunged into the darkness, the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves filling their lungs. The sounds of pursuit faded, replaced by the frantic thudding of their own hearts and the rasp of their ragged breaths.
They stumbled out of the tunnel, gasping for air, into a world of silver and shadow. Ancient trees, their branches gnarled and twisted, loomed over them like silent guardians. Faela swayed, her legs weak, and Brandir caught her, his arms a haven of strength in the chaos. "We made it," he whispered, but the words felt hollow even to his own ears. They were far from safe. He had to get her out, away from the clutches of the usurper who had murdered her mother and imprisoned her father.
He pressed his chain of office into her hand. "Melt this down," he urged, his voice thick with emotion. "Use it. Escape. He will never stop looking for you."
With a swiftness born of desperation, she vanished into the misty night.
He opened his eyes, his gaze drawn to the moonstone silk of his tunic, intricately embroidered with scenes of ancient lore. It shimmered with every movement, clinging to his lean, muscled frame, a symbol of the elven grace and power he was expected to embody. But beneath the finery, he felt a hollowness, a sense of emptiness that no amount of luxury or responsibility could fill.
He rose from the chair, his movements restless, his spirit yearning for escape. He crossed the room and flung open the heavy drapes, revealing the moonlit expanse of Aelindale spread out below. The city, a jewel nestled in the valley, shimmered like a thousand stars, a testament to the beauty and harmony he was duty-bound to protect. But at what cost?
The weight of his responsibilities pressed down on him, the expectations suffocating him. He longed for a life of adventure, a chance to prove himself on the battlefield, not in the stifling confines of the court. But fate, it seemed, had other plans.
He was a prince, the heir to a kingdom teetering on the brink of chaos. And tonight, the Grand Ball loomed, another in a seemingly endless series of attempts to bind him in a political marriage, a duty he abhorred. He yearned for love, for a connection that went beyond duty and lineage, a bond that ignited his soul, not one forged in the cold calculations of political strategy.
He turned away from the window, his gaze falling upon the sapphire circlet. Its cool gleam mocked the warmth he craved. Turning away again he sat back down, unsettled in every way. He was a prisoner in a gilded cage, surrounded by the trappings of elven royalty yet utterly alone.
Suddenly, a frantic messenger burst into the room, his chest heaving, his face flushed. He stumbled over the plush rug, nearly tripping over a stray book that had fallen from the overflowing shelves. "My prince," he gasped, bowing deeply, his voice catching in his throat, "Eldrin has arrived with urgent news. He awaits you in the garden."
Brandir, startled from his reverie, felt a cold dread coil in his gut. Eldrin? Back early? He pushed himself up from the armchair, his movements swift despite the weight of apprehension that settled over him. "I'll be there shortly," he commanded, his voice a low rumble that belied his inner turmoil.
He strode towards the balcony, his long strides eating up the distance, his moonstone tunic swirling around him. He shoved open the French doors, the glass rattling in its frame, and stepped out onto the balcony. The cool night air whipped at his face, a welcome contrast to the stifling atmosphere of his chambers. The moon, a pale crescent hanging low in the twilight sky, cast an ethereal glow over the meticulously manicured gardens below, its light reflecting off the white stone buildings of Eldalondë, the city of his birth, the city he yearned to see restored to its former glory.
He gripped the intricately carved railing, the smooth marble cold beneath his fingers, and descended the winding staircase, his mind racing. What could be so urgent that Eldrin would risk returning before the appointed time? He imagined the worst – an attack on their borders, a resurgence of the rebellion, a threat to his mother's fragile reign.
As he approached the secluded grove, a hidden sanctuary nestled amidst fragrant jasmine and ancient oaks, the air crackled with tension, a discordant note in the garden's usual symphony of serenity. The scent of night-blooming jasmine, usually a source of comfort, now seemed heavy, cloying, a harbinger of ill tidings. The chirping of crickets, once a soothing lullaby, now seemed to intensify the silence, each chirp a punctuation mark in the oppressive stillness.
He found Eldrin leaning against an ancient oak, its gnarled branches reaching out like skeletal arms. Eldrin's form was slumped with exhaustion, his usually impeccable attire replaced with travel-worn clothes that were torn and mud-stained. His amber eyes, usually bright with laughter and mischief, were now haunted by a darkness Brandir had never seen before.
"Eldrin," Brandir greeted, his voice hushed, his heart pounding with a mix of dread and anticipation. "What news?"
Eldrin straightened, pushing himself away from the tree trunk, his movements stiff and weary. His usual easy grin was absent, replaced by a grim line that etched his youthful features. He looked...haunted. "The Nightwraiths," he rasped, his voice hoarse, the words catching in his throat as if each syllable was a struggle. He ran a hand through his tangled hair, leaving a streak of mud across his forehead. "They're—" He hesitated, then seemed to gather his resolve, his gaze meeting Brandir's with a desperate intensity. "They are growing bolder, Brandir. Their attacks...more frequent, more brutal." He gestured towards his tattered clothing, the fabric ripped and stained with what Brandir could only assume was blood. "They nearly had us this time. They're like nothing we've ever encountered before."
Brandir felt a chill crawl down his spine, an icy premonition that settled deep in his bones. "Tell me everything," he commanded, his voice steel-edged despite the tremor in his gut.
Eldrin recounted their harrowing encounter in the human village, his voice tight with emotion, his hands clenching and unclenching as he relived the horrors he had witnessed. The Nightwraiths had descended with a ferocity unlike anything he'd ever witnessed, their shadowy forms wreaking havoc, leaving a trail of fear and despair in their wake. They'd barely escaped with their lives, their mission cut short by the overwhelming darkness.
He paused, his gaze flickering towards Brandir, then away, as if ashamed of his near failure. "We had a lead," he finally continued, his voice cracking, the hope in his words battling with the despair that threatened to consume him. "A whisper, nothing more...of a woman, an elf in hiding, who might be..." He trailed off, the unspoken name hanging heavy in the air, a fragile possibility that seemed both too good to be true and too painful to bear.
"Faela?" Brandir's voice was barely a whisper, a fragile thread of hope woven into the darkness that had enveloped them.
Eldrin nodded slowly, his eyes filled with a deep sadness, a reflection of the burden they both carried. "We believe so. But the Nightwraiths have a stronghold in the region. We couldn't get close enough to confirm. There's something different about them, Brandir. Something...darker."
RUNNING BEHIND
Brandir rushed down the torch-lit hallway, the smoky air stinging his nostrils, the shadows from the leaping flames dancing along the polished obsidian floors. His moonstone tunic billowed behind him, the intricate embroidery a blur of silver in the flickering light. He could hear the impatient tapping of his mother's scepter echoing from the Hall of Stars, each sharp click a reminder of his tardiness. He skidded to a halt before the massive doors, their bronze surfaces gleaming with intricate carvings of celestial dragons and mythical beasts. His guards, Elarae and Cael, flanked him, their expressions stoic despite the urgency of the situation. Elarae shifted her weight, her hand instinctively hovering near the hilt of her sword, while Cael remained a statue of immobility, his gaze fixed on the imposing doors.
The doors swung inward, revealing his mother, the Stewart Queen, framed in the archway. Her entourage, a shimmering tide of silk and jewels, fanned out behind her, their whispers echoing in the sudden hush. Her lips were pursed, her brow furrowed, and her sapphire eyes – so like his own – flashed with disapproval. She stood ramrod straight, her posture radiating authority, her bejeweled scepter tapping a sharp rhythm against the obsidian floor.
"Brandir!" Though laced with a mother's exasperation, her voice held the unmistakable ring of command that could silence a room full of dignitaries. "Care to explain why you've kept me waiting?"
He bowed his head, a flicker of guilt momentarily overshadowing the weight of Eldrin's news. He longed to confide in her, to share the burden of the Nightwraiths' growing threat, but the timing was impossible. Not with the court buzzing with anticipation just beyond those imposing doors. "My apologies, Mother," he said, forcing a calm he didn't feel, his hand instinctively reaching to adjust the sapphire circlet on his brow.
Her eyebrow arched a silver spark in her carefully sculpted brow. "Tonight? Of all nights? The one night your presence is paramount, you show up late?"
Brandir met her gaze, a hint of defiance flickering in his eyes. He straightened, squaring his shoulders, his elven pride momentarily eclipsing his anxiety. "I understand, Mother," he replied, weariness seeping into his voice. "I'm sorry I delayed you."
Queen Lysandra's expression softened slightly, but her tone remained firm. She stepped closer, her bejeweled fingers reaching out to gently brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "Brandir," she said, her voice softening, "you are the heir to Eldalondë. Your actions, your choices, have far-reaching consequences. This ball, this Rite of Choosing, is not merely a social gathering. It is a tradition that has ensured the stability of our kingdom for centuries. It is how we choose our partners, how we weave the threads of fate to create a strong and enduring lineage."
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
"I understand the importance of tradition, Mother," he countered, a hint of frustration coloring his voice. He shifted his weight, his gaze flickering towards the eager faces peering through the doorway, the weight of their expectations pressing down on him. "But I believe that a union forged solely on duty and lineage is a hollow foundation for a lasting partnership."
The Queen's lips tightened, her fingers tightening momentarily on his arm. "And what of your duty to produce an heir? To ensure the continuation of our line?"
Brandir met her gaze, his own determination unwavering. "An heir born of obligation, Mother, is a burden, not a blessing. I yearn for a connection that goes beyond duty, a love that ignites my soul, a partnership built on mutual respect and shared dreams."
A flicker of understanding crossed her face, quickly masked by a renewed sense of purpose. "Brandir," she said, her voice softening again, her hand lingering on his arm, "I understand your yearning. But have you considered that perhaps your destiny lies intertwined with the very traditions you seek to escape?"
He frowned, doubt clouding his features.
"The Rite of Choosing," Queen Lysandra continued, her voice taking on an almost mystical quality, "is a sacred ritual, a time when the threads of fate are woven together. The Hall of Stars will shimmer with magic tonight, guiding each of us towards our intended path. Perhaps, amidst the masks and illusions of the nobles, you have simply not yet encountered the one whose destiny aligns with yours." She stepped back, her hand falling away, but her eyes held his with an unwavering intensity. "And sometimes," she added, her voice a conspiratorial whisper, "we need to help destiny along."
Brandir remained silent, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. His mother's words, though steeped in tradition, held a kernel of truth. Perhaps he had been too quick to dismiss the Rite of Choosing, too blinded by cynicism to see the possibilities.
"I will consider your words, Mother," he finally conceded, a hint of resignation in his voice.
The Queen smiled, a genuine warmth radiating from her. "That is all I ask, my son." She gestured towards the grand doors, her bejeweled hand beckoning him forward. "Now, let us make our entrance."
The herald's voice boomed through the ballroom, echoing off the vaulted ceilings adorned with constellations and celestial motifs: "Presenting Her Majesty, the Stewart Queen of Eldalondë, and Prince Brandir, heir to the throne!"
They stepped across the threshold, the Queen regal and poised, Brandir a reluctant participant in a dance he didn't fully understand. But as he entered the Hall of Stars, the grand ballroom bathed in the soft glow of enchanted crystals, a sense of unease prickled his skin. The air thrummed with a strange energy, a palpable tension that hung heavy in the air, and he couldn't shake the feeling that tonight, the threads of fate were about to take a very unexpected turn.
THE BALL
The grand doors swung open, and Brandir and the Queen were swept into a whirlwind of color and sound. Dresses twirled, glasses clinked, and laughter echoed off the vaulted ceilings of the Hall of Stars. But to Brandir, it was all a cacophony. The music was obnoxiously cheerful, the laughter piercing, the perfumes cloying. He felt a growing sense of claustrophobia, a desperate need to escape the suffocating gaiety.
He forced a smile, accepting the well wishes of his subjects, his gaze searching the faces around him, hoping for a friendly face, a moment of respite from the charade. But all he saw were eager smiles and expectant eyes. He felt like a prize pony being paraded around, his every move scrutinized.
"Enjoying the festivities, my prince?" Elarae murmured, her eyes twinkling with amusement.
"Immensely," Brandir muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I haven't been this thrilled since that time we were trapped in that goblin cave with the exploding mushrooms."
Cael chuckled. "At least the goblins had the decency to try and kill us outright. This slow torture by forced pleasantries is far more insidious."
Brandir moved through the throng with a practiced charm, but his sapphire eyes held a distant flicker, a shadow of the burdens he carried. He longed for the simplicity of a battlefield, the clarity of a sword fight. Anything but this.
"Another sonnet about moonlit meadows," Brandir groaned, rolling his eyes as he extricated himself from the clutches of yet another love-struck noblewoman. "Does no one have any original thoughts in this realm?"
Elarae stifled a laugh. "Perhaps we should suggest a new muse for the bards next year," she replied, a mischievous glint in her twilight eyes. "How about 'Ode to a Well-Mucked Stable'?"
Before Brandir could conjure a suitably witty retort, a booming voice interjected. "That won't help, my dear," chuckled Lord Dunmire, a childhood friend known for his irreverent humor. "Moonlit meadows are practically woven into their contracts! It'd be economic treason to deprive them of such fertile lyrical ground."
The group erupted in laughter, the sound a welcome respite from the stifling formality of the court. "Dunmire, you old rogue," Brandir chided with a grin, playfully shoving his friend's shoulder. "Always a thorn in the side of tradition."
"Someone has to keep you lot on your toes," Dunmire retorted. "Besides, a little levity never hurt anyone, especially on a night designed to induce mass matrimony." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the assembled nobles with mock seriousness. "Though, I must admit, some of these attempts at courtship are enough to make even the most stoic warrior weep."
"Tell me about it," Brandir muttered under his breath, recalling the young lady who had just compared his eyes to "twin pools of starlight reflecting the eternal beauty of the cosmos." He shuddered dramatically. "I swear, if I hear one more celestial metaphor, I might spontaneously combust."
Elarae snorted with laughter. "Perhaps you should challenge them to a duel of wits," she suggested. "The first one to use a cliché loses."
"Now that's an idea I can get behind," Dunmire declared, rubbing his hands together gleefully. "Imagine the chaos! The bards would be out of work for months."
Cael, who had been observing the exchange with a bemused smile, finally spoke, his voice a low rumble. "While I appreciate the entertainment value, perhaps we should focus on the matter at hand. The Queen is watching, and I doubt she'd appreciate her son inciting a rebellion against the bards."
Brandir sighed. "Always the voice of reason, Cael," he lamented. "But you're right, of course. Duty calls, even amidst the most absurd of rituals." He paused, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes. "Though, perhaps a well-placed insult or two wouldn't go amiss."
Dunmire's grin widened. "Now you're speaking my language, Brandir. Let's see... how about 'Your grace is as radiant as a moldy cheese wheel'?"
Elarae choked back a laugh. "Dunmire, you're incorrigible!"
"And that's why you love me," he retorted with a wink.
Their conversation flowed, a refreshing current of witty banter and shared memories. They reminisced about their childhood escapades – the time they snuck into the Queen's private gardens and accidentally unleashed a swarm of enchanted butterflies, the disastrous attempt to brew a potion that turned Dunmire's hair a vibrant shade of purple for a week, and the legendary snowball fight that nearly caused a diplomatic incident with the neighboring gnome kingdom.
Just as Cael had predicted, the Queen materialized beside them, her serene smile a thinly veiled mask of iron will. Lady Isara, a vision of beauty with raven hair and eyes like molten gold, stood beside her, radiating the nervous excitement of a sacrificial lamb.
"Brandir, my dear," the Queen purred, her voice a practiced melody of maternal manipulation, "have you met Lady Isara, daughter of Lord Elmshadow, the esteemed High Councilor?" She gestured towards the young woman, her smile widening as she observed the carefully orchestrated blush rising on Isara's cheeks. "She's quite the accomplished harpist, wouldn't you agree?"
Brandir, inwardly groaning, executed a flawless bow, his smile a carefully crafted mask of princely charm. "Indeed, Your Majesty. Lady Isara's reputation for grace and musical talent precedes her." He turned to Isara, offering another bow, his eyes politely meeting hers, careful not to linger for too long lest it be interpreted as a sign of genuine interest.
The Queen, ever the master puppeteer, beamed. "I'm sure you two have much to discuss. Why don't you lead Lady Isara to the dance floor?"
Brandir's shoulders slumped imperceptibly. "Of course, your Majesty," he replied, offering his arm to Isara with a practiced flourish. "May I have this dance, my lady?"
Isara, radiating the thrill of a captured prize, placed her hand in his. As they joined the swirling mass of dancers, Brandir found himself trapped in a whirlwind of forced pleasantries and thinly veiled boasts about her family's lineage. Her laugh, high-pitched and frequent, grated on his nerves, and her perfume smelled suspiciously like overripe fruit. He responded with polite nods and the occasional "Indeed, how fascinating," his gaze desperately searching for an escape route, or perhaps a strategically placed collapsing ice sculpture.
The music swirled around them, a dizzying waltz that mirrored the nausea rising in his throat. He longed for the open air, for the honest camaraderie of his friends, for a swift and painless end to this suffocating charade.
As the final notes of the melody faded, Brandir, with the speed and agility of a seasoned escape artist, escorted Isara back to her father, his relief palpable. With a final bow and a murmured excuse, he retreated, his heart heavy with the knowledge that the night's trials were far from over. He glanced up at the vaulted ceiling, the constellations seeming to mock him with their indifference. What fresh hell awaited him now?
STRATEGIC ALLIANCE
Brandir, still reeling from his encounter with Lady Isara and her fragrant perfume (which he suspected was made from fermented mangoes and crushed beetles), was contemplating the merits of faking a sudden illness when a voice like melted honey startled him.
"Well, my dear," the Queen purred, materializing beside him with the stealth of a seasoned huntress. "Enjoying the festivities?"
Brandir choked back a startled laugh. "Mother," he said, "you have the subtlety of a charging griffin. And the timing of a—" He paused, searching for a suitably sarcastic comparison. "—a bard with a new love ballad."
Queen Lyusandra's lips twitched with amusement, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Stealth is a virtue, darling. And speaking of virtues, how are you finding the eligible maidens tonight? Anyone caught your eye?"
Brandir gestured vaguely towards the throng of dancers, his expression a mix of boredom and disdain. "They're all so... enthusiastic. I fear my ego might float away if I'm not careful."
The Queen chuckled, her laughter like the tinkling of enchanted bells. "Ah, the trials of a handsome prince. But surely there must be someone who stands out from the crowd?"
Brandir shrugged. "They all seem to have a fondness for flowery compliments and a disturbing obsession with my eyes. I'm half convinced they're planning to harvest them for some sort of beauty potion."
The Queen's smile widened. "Don't be so cynical, Brandir. There are plenty of lovely young women here tonight. Surely one of them must have sparked your interest."
Brandir took a sip of his wine, savoring the tartness of the fermented berries. "I'm not sure 'sparked my interest' is quite the phrase I'd use. More like 'induced a mild panic attack.'"
Queen Lysandra’s amusement faded slightly. "Brandir," she started, her voice taking on a more serious tone.
"Brandir," the Queen started, her voice taking on a more serious tone.
Whoops, he had pushed his teasing too far. He quickly backpedaled, running his hands through his hair. "I know, I know!" he said, cutting her off before she could get going, with a touch of genuine frustration creeping into his voice. "They are all perfectly lovely. But I think that's part of the problem. They are too perfect." He hesitated, struggling to articulate the vague unease that settled over him whenever he was surrounded by these flawlessly polished, impeccably mannered noblewomen.
"Too perfect?" Queen Lysandra echoed, her brow furrowed. "What do you mean, darling?"
Brandir sighed. "It's... difficult to explain. They're all so... accomplished. So graceful. So eager to recite poetry and discuss the finer points of embroidery." He paused, searching for the right words. "It's as if they're all playing a part, fulfilling some preordained role. There's no... spontaneity. No spark. No sense that they have any desires or ambitions beyond securing a advantageous marriage."
The Queen's expression softened slightly. "Brandir," she said, her voice gentler now, "perhaps you're looking for something that doesn't exist. Perfection is an illusion. Everyone has flaws, even these seemingly flawless maidens."
Brandir met her gaze, a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. "That’s exactly my point. All the prettily painted masks but who knows what monstrosity is hiding beneath.”
She leaned closer, her breath warm against his ear. "Tell me, darling," she murmured, "wouldn’t you want a maiden who possesses both? A maiden with a flawless facade, a perfect pedigree... and a hidden wildness that yearns to be unleashed? Have you ever truly looked beyond the surface? Have you ever considered that the perfect maiden might be right under your nose, hidden in plain sight?""
That was exactly it! That was what he was trying to articulate. But no, he had never seen so much as a flicker of temerity. “You’re assuming there is a hidden depth.”
Queen Lysandra sighed as though disappointed. "Well, I've been speaking with High Councilor Elmshadow..."
Brandir's heart sank. He knew that tone. It was the tone she used when she was about to announce a new tax on imported cheese or a mandatory courtly dance class. "Mother," he began, a sense of dread creeping in, "if this is about another attempt to marry me off—"
"Oh, Brandir," the Queen interrupted, her voice dripping with faux-disappointment. "Don't be so dramatic. It's not an arranged marriage, merely a... mutually beneficial agreement. A strategic alliance, if you will."
Brandir's eyes widened. "Agreement? Alliance? Mother, what have you done?"
Queen Lysandra beamed. "I've initiated the courting discussions with High Councilor Elmshadow. He's quite amenable to the idea of a union between our families."
Brandir sputtered, "But—but I haven't even chosen anyone! I haven't even had a chance to properly assess the candidates!"
The Queen patted his arm condescendingly. "That's where you're wrong, darling. You've had seven years of Rites of Choosing. Seven years to make a decision. And since you seem incapable of choosing for yourself, I've taken the liberty of doing it for you."
Brandir stared at her, speechless. He'd been outmaneuvered by his own mother. Again.
"Lady Isara is a delightful young woman," the Queen continued, oblivious to his dismay. "Intelligent, accomplished, and from a highly influential family. She'll make a splendid queen."
Brandir opened his mouth to protest, but the Queen silenced him with a raised hand. "Don't worry, darling. I've arranged for you to have some... private time with her tomorrow. A chance to get to know each other better, away from the pressures of the court."
Brandir groaned inwardly. He could already picture it: a forced picnic in the royal gardens, surrounded by twittering birds and overbearing chaperones, while Lady Isara regaled him with tales of her harp-playing prowess and her extensive collection of butterfly wings.
"I'm sure you'll come to appreciate her many fine qualities," the Queen said, her voice laced with a hint of warning. "And remember, Brandir, the future of Eldalondë rests on your shoulders. Choose wisely."
With that, she glided away, leaving Brandir standing there, feeling like a pawn in a game he didn't understand. He needed a drink. A very strong one. Preferably with a generous dose of amnesia.