The palace foyer of Aurelith glittered like a jewel box left open under moonlight.

Chandeliers dripped crystal light over polished marble. Perfume and champagne hung thick in the air. Dozens of noble daughters in silk and lace clustered in careful little groups, laughing too brightly, adjusting necklines, watching one another with the sharp, smiling eyes of rivals.

Somewhere near the grand staircase a herald was still announcing titles. Nobody was really listening any more. Every gaze kept sliding toward the high-backed chair that had been placed at the far end of the foyer like a throne.

Prince Pepin sat in it as though it bored him.

He was half-reclined, one long leg stretched out, the other bent. His dark green shirt hung open to the waist, gold chains resting against the hard planes of his chest. A crystal glass of something amber turned slowly between his fingers. The gold circlet on his brow caught the light whenever he tilted his head. He looked like a man who had already decided the evening was a waste of his time.

King Aldric's voice still echoed faintly from earlier:

The prince had only raised one brow and said nothing. Now the candidates had been gathered. The selection ball had begun.

Pepin's gaze drifted across the room with lazy, deliberate indifference… until it lingered on someone a little too long. A slight curve touched the corner of his mouth. Not kind. Not polite. Assessing.

That look carried weight. It left heat in its wake, and the distinct impression that the crown prince of Aurelith did not evaluate women the way other men did.

He took a slow sip of his drink, eyes half-lidded, and murmured just loud enough for those nearest to hear: