Her Highness, By Mistake

Chapter 8

Chapter 8: The Selection Begins

The bells tolled across Velandria’s capital with an eerie finality.

Eira stood on the marble terrace outside her chamber, hands trembling slightly as she tightened the sapphire sash around her waist. The ceremonial gown was weighty—deep blue with silver embroidery shaped like blooming moonflowers, its sleeves sheer and trailing. It was beautiful, regal, suffocating.

Beneath her skin, her soul writhed. She could feel Selis stirring again, faint and cold, like frost beneath her veins. A whisper that wasn’t quite sound murmured at the edge of her mind.

You should not be here.

He was mine.

She bit down on her lip until she tasted blood.

The day had come. The Selection—the ceremonial and political spectacle where the Crown Prince would choose a bride—not just to bear heirs, but to stand beside him as queen in the face of encroaching war and divine judgment.

And Eira, a modern woman inhabiting the wrong body in the wrong time, had no idea what she was doing.

The grand ballroom of Valenhart Palace had been transformed into a ceremonial arena. Velvet banners hung from the columns—each bearing the sigils of the major noble houses. Magic shimmered faintly in the air, the protective spells around the arena humming with ancient energy. Dozens of courtiers stood in silent rows, watching.

At the center, twelve bridal candidates lined up in a perfect crescent formation. All young women. All noble-born. All trained for this their entire lives.

Eira was the outlier, and they knew it.

Duke Valenhart’s cool gaze had lingered on her longer than the others when they entered. Mira—now officially assigned as her attendant and confidante—had whispered at her side, “Keep your posture straight. Don’t blink too often. And whatever you do, don’t engage Corvina.”

“Which one’s—”

“That one,” Mira muttered, just as Corvina Lyselle swept past like a gilded storm cloud.

Corvina was beautiful in a deliberate, commanding way—ice-blonde hair woven into a crown braid, eyes sharp as daggers, and a smirk that could cut glass. She paused before Eira, pretending to fix a nonexistent wrinkle in her gown.

“I didn’t realize the Selection had lowered its standards to include ghosts of disgrace,” she said sweetly. “How progressive.”

Eira blinked. “Ghosts tend to linger when they’re not finished.”

Corvina’s smile faltered just enough to satisfy something dark in Eira’s chest. Mira suppressed a laugh.

From the dais above, Alric rose, flanked by his advisors and Duke Thesian, whose expression was unreadable as ever. He wore ceremonial black, a gleaming sword at his hip.

Alric’s eyes met hers. He did not smile, but something flickered in his gaze. Recognition. Doubt. Heat. She didn’t know what she wanted to see there.

His voice rang out across the chamber. “Welcome, noble daughters of Velandria. Today begins the Choosing.”

Gasps and murmurs filled the air. The words were formal, ancient. But the undertone was unmistakable—this was not just a matter of courtly affection. It was strategy. Magic. Destiny.

Later, they were escorted into the Hall of Trials, an enormous chamber beneath the palace, where golden light streamed through enchanted glass.

Maerel, the stoic High Magus, stepped forward. Her voice echoed unnaturally, enhanced by runes on her robe. “Each contender shall undergo four trials: Wisdom, Diplomacy, Martial Skill, and Magic. The gods favor the whole, not just the lovely.”

Eira's stomach twisted. She barely remembered high school math, much less court etiquette, fencing, or spellcraft.

“You may refuse any trial,” Maerel continued. “But refusal reflects weakness. And weakness bears cost.”

Corvina stepped forward first for the Diplomacy Trial. She smiled as if born to command. In front of a table of ambassadors, she effortlessly answered a scenario about border negotiations with the Aethari, weaving political nuance with veiled threats and elegance.

The judges nodded.

Eira stood second-to-last in the line. She watched the others—some fumbling, some perfect. Her breath caught as her name was called.

“Lady Elyanora Valenhart.”

She stepped forward, legs stiff, heart hammering. Her scenario: A rebellion in the southern provinces. The prince had sent troops, but the rebel leader requested a parley. Would she advise peace or war?

She hesitated. “I’d request a private audience. People rebel when they feel unseen. If their concerns are rooted in fear or injustice, it’s wiser to resolve the rot than cut the tree.”

A murmur passed through the room. One of the judges—a scholar from the College of Dros—nodded slowly.

Unexpected. Thoughtful. Risky.

The Trial of Wisdom involved solving a riddle-puzzle in a rotating magical sphere. Most girls struggled. Corvina solved hers in minutes.

Eira’s puzzle? Symbols on the spinning sphere rearranged themselves each time she touched them. She studied the sequence, something tugging at her memory.

Symbols… symbols like the ones etched on the Oracle’s chamber walls.

She closed her eyes and let her fingers move. Not by logic. By instinct. A pulse of warmth surged through her skin as the sphere clicked open.

Magic sparked in her palm—and vanished.

Maerel watched her closely. “Interesting.”

The next day, the combat trial was held in the outer courtyard. It was meant to test spirit and physical resilience, not skill alone.

Eira had never held a sword before arriving in Velandria. But Selis had.

The first clash came against a noble girl from House Tren. Eira raised her wooden practice blade. She was clumsy, slow.

Then, suddenly, her grip shifted. Her foot pivoted. She blocked an incoming strike—perfectly. The movement felt natural, fluid.

Let me in, Selis whispered. You’ll win.

No. Not like this.

Eira fought back her instincts. She lost the duel. But not badly.

As she knelt to yield, Alric’s gaze met hers from the royal balcony. There was something like… approval in his eyes.

The magic trial was the most dangerous.

Each candidate was asked to summon an elemental orb—fire, water, air, or earth. Raw magic, drawn through the soul.

Eira watched as others conjured elegant flames or shaped winds. Corvina’s was especially dramatic—a flaming serpent that curled into her palm.

Eira stepped forward last. The arena quieted.

She closed her eyes. Reached in.

There was something inside her. Not fire. Not air. A flicker of soul.

She whispered the incantation she’d heard once in the Oracle’s chamber.

Virelis ananta…

Her hand lifted—and instead of a flame, a glowing white flower bloomed in the air, made of pure spirit-light. A hush fell.

Maerel gasped softly. Even Duke Thesian stood.

Only Alric looked truly shaken.

That kind of magic… it was ancient. Forbidden. Soul magic.

That night, in the quiet of her chamber, Mira fussed with her hair, brushing out the curls.

“You made an impression,” Mira said. “Corvina is furious.”

“I didn’t mean to show off.”

“You didn’t. You showed something else. Something none of them could fake.”

Eira met her gaze in the mirror. “What do you mean?”

Mira’s voice softened. “You were… honest. Even when you were scared. That’s rare here.”

The brush stilled in her hands.

“There’s something else, though,” Mira added. “That flower. That magic—it wasn’t just yours, was it?”

Eira stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve seen soul-flame once before. In a dying priest. It’s not the kind of magic you learn. It’s given. Or stolen.”

Eira turned away. “I don’t know what it was.”

But in her chest, Selis stirred, restless. Angry.

You flaunted it. My gift. You’re not even worthy.

Eira pressed her hands to her face. “Then take it back.”

But Selis didn’t answer. Only silence—and a creeping dread.

The next morning, as the Selection trials continued, rumors were already swirling:

The disgraced Valenhart girl conjured a soul flower.

The gods must be watching.

Is she cursed—or chosen?

Alric stood on the high steps of the palace, addressing the city. Behind him, the candidates assembled. His voice carried with calm command:

“The trials will continue for seven days. At the end, three will remain. And from them, a bride will be chosen—not just by crown or counsel, but by fate.”

His eyes found Eira again.

And in that moment, she felt it—more than attraction, more than danger. A spark.

Something was changing between them.

But whether it would lead to salvation—or ruin—Eira could not tell.