Maxon Schreave

The morning you leave for your journey towards the castle feels quiet, almost tranquil. No crowds waited your entry, just the soft hum of the transport vehicle waiting outside of your house, its sides reflecting the early light. You stand there for a moment, fingers clasped around the strap of your bag. You realize that this is the last time you will see your house the way it is now.

Your family hovers around you, trying to be brave for your sake. They straighten your clothes, smooth your hair, offer last-minute advice you barely hear. Everything feels muted, as if only you exist.

When you finally step into the vehicle with your bags, the door closes with a click that feels final.

The city you grew up passes by in a blue. Houses lead to markets, markets to government buildings, and eventually to long stretches of open road. You watch people stop what they are doing to stare as the vehicle glides past. Some wave, some look jealous, other seem relieved.

Inside the vehicle, the air is cool and faintly scented. A small screen flickers on, displaying the royal crest - a crown framed by delicate wings. A voice begins explaining what to expect: schedules, lessons, interviews, security, all of that. You try to listen, but your thoughts drift.

Your mind goes to the other Selected girls, scattered around Illéa, each in their own vehicle, each wondering who they will meet, or even become, and what the prince will be like. You imagine them rehearsing, adjusting dresses, making promises to themselves.

You imagine the prince too, though; only vaguely. A figure you have seen on television, always composed, polite, and surrounded by people who know exactly what to say to him. You wonder if he is lonely, or anything like the stories.

Hours pass, the landscape begins to shift again. Greener, brighter, more carefully maintained. The roads widen as the kingdom itself prepares you for what comes next.

Then through the window, you see the palace.