**Tyche's pov**
Ourania's lips curved — not into a smile, but into something thinner. Something wounded.
For a moment, I thought she would lash out.
Instead, something flickered in her eyes.
A sting.
I had touched something I was not meant to touch.
Her chin lifted slightly, but the confidence she wore like silk had thinned.
The wall she kept so high — the one that scraped the sky — trembled.
The room fell into silence.
Then, at last, she spoke.
"I didn't enter the draw personally," she said coolly. "Mother did. On my behalf."
The words were composed, but I heard it — the faint fracture beneath them.
My fingers tightened around each other.
"Then… have you heard of him?" I asked carefully. "The fourth prince."
Her eyes flickered.
"Who hasn't?" she replied, brushing invisible lint from her sleeve. "They use him to tell frightening tales in school and at peer gatherings. Little girls whisper about him when the lamps go out."
She gave a soft, humorless huff.
"But no one has met him personally to confirm those rumors."
Her calm unsettled me more than fear would have.
I swallowed.
"Then why would Aunt still sign you in," I asked, unable to stop myself, "for a future tied to something like that?"
Her gaze sharpened.
"It isn't as though it has been carved into stone," she said. "The draw has not happened yet."
She stepped closer to her vanity, adjusting a loose strand of hair as if this conversation were nothing more than air.
"Anyone could be chosen."
Anyone.
The word echoed.
"And even if my name were drawn," she continued, her tone steady, "it would not be the third prince I am bound to."
Her eyes flicked toward me through the reflection.
"It would be Prince Piers,the youngest prince."
When she said it like that, so detached, something in me eased.
Not because I wished such a fate upon anyone.
But because… if someone entered the draw, they did so willingly.
Or at least knowingly.
They chose the risk.
Without thinking — without weighing the consequences of my tongue — the words slipped from me.
"I hope you don't get picked."
Silence.
Ourania slowly turned her head toward me.
One brow lifted.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
Before I could gather my defense — before I could explain that I meant safety, not insult — she spoke.
"Do you," she asked quietly, "want to enter the draw?"
The question struck harder than a slap.
My breath caught.
For a moment, I forgot how to answer.
And in her eyes, I saw it.
Challenge.
Suspicion.
And something else.
Something dangerously curious.
"What?" The word left me almost too quickly. "No."
I straightened instinctively, shaking my head. "I don't."
Even if I did… what would that change?
"I wouldn't even qualify," I added, my voice quieter now, but steady.
"My standing in this house — in this village — is far too low."
Ourania said nothing, but her eyes did not leave me.
"I have no parents to present me," I continued, forcing myself to meet her gaze. "No father to speak on my behalf before the council. No mother to stand beside me during the proceedings."
The words felt heavier the more I spoke them.
"In matters like this… their presence matters. It always has."
Every girl chosen before had been escorted by proud parents, dressed in their best, hands trembling with equal parts honor and fear.
What would I have?
A silence.
A space.
An absence.
"It would be an insult," I said carefully, choosing each word as though it were fragile glass. "For the village council to present an orphan to the imperial family. To bind someone of such… noble blood to a girl with no lineage to offer in return."
I lowered my eyes slightly.
"It would dishonor them."
For a moment, the room fell quiet.
The air between us shifted — not warmer, not kinder — just different.
Because I had not spoken those words in bitterness.
I had spoken them as fact.
And sometimes truth cuts deeper than cruelty ever could.
Ourania's eyes widened slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing her otherwise cold expression.
I thought I might have spoken too boldly, that perhaps I had overstepped, but…
She didn't lash out.
Instead, there was a strange curve to her lips, almost imperceptible. Pleased. Satisfied, in a way, though I couldn't be sure why.
"You know your place," she said finally, voice calm but carrying the tiniest edge of… approval, maybe.
Her words struck me as odd.
Approval from her? I kept my hands folded neatly in front of me, trying not to flinch under the faint weight of her gaze.
I didn't expect kindness. Not from her.
"I—" I began, wanting to retreat, to leave, but she interrupted.
"Don't misunderstand," she continued, almost sharply. "I have no desire to be bound to someone I meet only at my wedding day. I… care for someone else entirely."
The words hung obviously in the air. Marios.
I nodded quietly, lowering my eyes. I had expected as much.
"But," she added, and here her tone darkened just slightly, "I wouldn't wish even a sliver of happiness on you either. Not that I could interfere, of course."
The words were soft, polite almost, but I could feel the subtle venom behind them. She wanted to make sure that I understood that the world was not kind to girls like me. That the slightest spark of hope was mine alone to extinguish.
I straightened my spine and met her gaze, careful to let none of my own feelings show.
"I understand," I said simply. "And I thank you for your honesty."
The words were carefully neutral. Truth without fear. Respect without submission.
And in that small moment, I felt… strangely empowered, as if simply stating my place and accepting it could shield me from the harshness of what was to come.
A thought crossed my mind about Marios, sharp and unwelcome. If you like him… I began, my voice low but steady, "If you like him, Marios, why did you allow Aunt to enter the draw on your behalf?"
Ourania's eyes flicked toward mine, just for a moment, and I could see the weight of her mother's disapproval pressing down on her. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and for a heartbeat, she said nothing. Then, almost coldly, almost deliberately, she answered, "Every mother wants the best life for her children. You wouldn't understand—without one, you can't."
Her words, sharp as daggers, cut through the room, and I felt the sting in my eyes, a slow burn that I fought to swallow. I wanted to argue, to insist, to tell her that love didn't always come neatly packaged—but I couldn't. Her expression said it all: warning, defense, and an almost cruel clarity that this was her world, not mine.
I blinked, forcing my vision to stay clear, forcing my heart to stay steady. Enough, I told myself. I had asked my question. I had shown my concern. And I had received my answer. What was I still doing here?
Then, as if the heavens themselves had heard my silent plea, the door swung open.
Xanthe stepped in, her presence immediate, grounding, a sharp contrast to the tension that had filled the room. Relief surged through me, and I almost sagged with it, letting my fists unclench.
"Tyche!" she whispered, her eyes flicking between Ourania and me, assessing the atmosphere in a single glance. I felt my chest loosen, my shoulders drop slightly, as if I had been holding my breath without knowing it.
The moment I had been waiting for had finally arrived—rescue, steady and unwavering, in the form of my sister, my only ally in this house.