The air at the Blackwood International Airport was thick with chatter, perfume, and nervous energy. The line for the "National Air Bureau" interview stretched like a serpent across the waiting hall.
Amara adjusted her bag strap and took a deep breath. It had been years—years—since she'd been this close to the ordinary world. No bowing servants. No palace silence. Just voices, laughter, and the sound of heels on polished tiles.
"Excuse me, is this the queue for administrative post?" a young woman asked behind her.
Amara turned with a soft smile. "Yes, I believe so."
The girl exhaled in relief. "Thank goodness. I've been standing for almost an hour. My name's Rhea."
"Amara," she said smoothly, the alias sliding off her tongue like second nature.
"Nice to meet you, Amara. You from around here?"
Amara hesitated a second too long. "Um… Capital District. You?"
"Outer Zone Twelve," Rhea said with a laugh. "You must be rich then. Everyone in Capital District has connections. My dad says they even breathe different air."
Amara chuckled softly. "Not really. We all breathe the same air."
Rhea leaned closer, whispering. "Then how come people from the inner zones always get picked? My brother applied last year. Scored perfect. Still didn't make it. You know why?"
Amara tilted her head. "Why?"
"Because we don't have a number high enough," Rhea said bitterly. "They say this country's fair, but the Blackwood system favors the high-class citizens."
Amara's heart skipped a beat. Hearing the name Blackwood used so casually, almost resentfully—it stung.
"You don't like the empire?" Amara asked carefully.
Rhea frowned. "I don't hate it. But… sometimes, it feels like we're not citizens—just statistics."
A voice interrupted from behind them—a tall man with a clean suit and a mocking tone. "Watch your mouth, girl. If the wrong person hears you, you'll end up cleaning floors in the Zone D barracks."
Rhea rolled her eyes. "You mean like the rest of us?"
The man scoffed. "Some of us know our place. The empire keeps order. Without the Blackwoods, this country would burn."
Amara said nothing. She was listening—deeply. Every word was a window into the hearts of her people. Some feared the empire. Some worshipped it. But many… quietly doubted it.
As they moved closer to the interview desk, Rhea whispered, "You look calm. You've done interviews before?"
"Once or twice," Amara said, hiding a smirk.
"Well, lucky you. I just hope I get this job. My mom's sick. She used to clean offices at the School of Loyals before…"
"Before?"
"She got dismissed. They said she didn't bow deep enough when the royal inspection came by."
That one pierced Amara's heart like a knife. She kept her expression neutral, but inside, her pulse quickened. Dismissed for not bowing deep enough?
A notification beeped quietly in her hidden earpiece—Chris's voice, calm and deep.
> "You're doing good, Amara. Keep going. The feed's clear."
She subtly touched her hairpin, activating the mic.
> "Chris… the people aren't all loyal. They're tired. They're afraid."
> "Good," he replied. "Fear means they still care enough to survive."
She frowned. "And love?"
> "Love," Chris said after a pause, "is something rulers buy with loyalty and luxury. Not words."
The line moved.
An officer called out, "Next! Applicant—Amara Stone!"
She straightened, smoothed her dress, and stepped forward.
Behind her, Rhea whispered, "Good luck, Amara. You seem too kind for this system."
Amara smiled faintly. "Maybe kindness is what it's missing."
She entered the interview room… unaware that Chris had just sent an order to her escorting guards:
> "No one interferes. Let's see what happens when the Queen stands alone."