"Preposterous," one councilman snarls, face red as a forge. "She's no candidate. She's a criminal. A murderer. And even worse, a bloody liar. She must've been sent by the Wolf King to infiltrate our ranks."
"She's an enemy of the crown," another hisses, his robes rattling as he jabs a jeweled finger toward me. "You would spit on the sanctity of this tradition by letting her stand among them.
It is a strange thing when the Council of Ebonheart descends into a fit of chaos because of you.
The guests have been ushered out, the revelry long ended. Lucien declared it dull and dismissed them all, because apparently introductions were over. The Selection, I've learned, drags on in three stages where princesses and noble ladies literally fight for the honor of being his bride.
