Amara stood outside the interview hall. The air smelled of dust, cheap perfume, and faint desperation. Dozens of candidates murmured around her, comparing scores, whispering results.
A young clerk stepped out with a clipboard, calling names.
"Candidate 204982 — approved."
"Candidate 605771 — standby."
"Candidate 109978 — rejected."
The last one echoed through the hallway like a slap.
Rejected.
Amara blinked slowly. Her number — 109978 — had just sealed her fate.
She approached the desk calmly. "Excuse me," she said, her tone polite. "May I ask the reason for rejection?"
The manager, a heavyset man with an oily grin and the tired eyes of someone who enjoyed small power too much, didn't even look up.
"Policy reasons," he said flatly, flipping through the papers.
"Policy?"
"Yes. Certain numbers are not preferred for civil employment above grade three."
"Not preferred?" Amara repeated quietly. "Meaning… disqualified by birth?"
The man finally looked at her, smiling faintly. "You said it, not me."
Amara's jaw tightened. "But my performance—"
"Was good," he interrupted. "Better than most, actually. But rules are rules, Miss… Stone, right?"
"Yes," she said.
He shrugged. "Then you should know how the Union works. Numbers speak before people do."
Amara stared at him, her chest rising and falling. For the first time in a long while, she felt the sting of injustice—not as a queen, not as a ruler's wife, but as a citizen.
"You're making a mistake," she said softly.
The manager leaned forward. "Miss Stone, let me teach you something. In this Union, no one makes mistakes… we just follow orders. Go home."
---
Outside, the sun hit her face, but it didn't warm her. She walked past the waiting applicants, some whispering, some staring in awe at her calm expression.
Inside a black-tinted car parked across the street, Chris watched from the back seat, hands clasped together, expression unreadable.
Soren sat beside him. "They rejected her… because of her number."
Chris didn't reply at first. His eyes lingered on her as she walked away, graceful even in defeat.
Then he said, voice low:
> "Good. Now she knows what it feels like to live under the laws we wrote."
Soren turned slightly. "That's cruel, Your Majesty."
Chris' eyes flickered. "Cruel is necessary. How else would she understand the weight of every number we command?"
The driver remained silent.
Outside, Amara stopped at a street vendor and bought water. The seller bowed nervously. "You look familiar," he said.
She smiled faintly. "I'm no one special."
But her eyes… told another story.
---
Later that evening, back at the palace, Amara stood in the great hall, her ID slip still in her hand. Chris entered quietly, removing his gloves.
"You knew," she said.
"Yes," he answered.
"You let it happen."
"Yes."
"Why?"
He walked closer until the paper trembled between them.
> "Because a ruler who never bleeds will never understand those who do."
Amara's eyes softened, anger fading into something deeper — sorrow, understanding, maybe love.
> "Then," she said quietly, "you've built a world where even the innocent must hurt… just to feel seen."
Chris looked down. "And you've just seen it."
---