A challenge from the king

The grand hall of the palace had never been more crowded. Nobles, duchesses, and princesses from all across the neighboring kingdoms stood in elegant clusters, their finest silks shimmering beneath the golden chandeliers. Jewels glistened at their throats, their hair styled to perfection, their perfume-laced presence thick in the air.

They had all come for one reason.

To be chosen as Queen.

Servants flitted between them, offering wine and delicacies, though most of the women ignored them, too preoccupied with their own reflections in the tall silver mirrors that lined the hall.

The queen mother, Maghret, stood near the grand throne, her expression composed, though there was an unmistakable glint of frustration in her eyes. She had spent months selecting the finest noblewomen, ensuring that her son had the most worthy options.

And yet—

He had barely even glanced at them.

Michael, the newly returned King, sat in his throne, expression impassive. His fingers drummed lightly against the armrest, his gaze sweeping over the candidates with all the enthusiasm of a man being forced to watch paint dry.

Maghret exhaled, regaining her composure.

“Michael, my son,” she said gently, “these ladies have waited three days to meet you. Surely, you could—”

“Pick one?” he finished, his tone unreadable.

Maghret hesitated. “…Yes.”

Michael sighed, his gaze briefly flickering to the line of eager, hopeful women before him.

He could already tell what they wanted.

A crown. Power. Prestige.

Not him.

Not really. And they can’t rule a kingdom.

He had seen it too many times before. How they flattered and smiled, speaking in carefully measured tones, rehearsed responses dancing from their lips. Women who knew exactly what to say and when to say it. Women who bowed and obeyed, just as they were raised to.

He was not impressed.

A woman with honey-colored hair stepped forward, her emerald gown trailing behind her. She lowered into a graceful curtsy.

“Your Majesty,” she said, her voice as smooth as silk. “It is an honor to stand before you. My father, Duke Harrington, sends his regards.”

Michael gave her a single, disinterested nod.

Another woman stepped forward, this one with raven-black hair and ice-blue eyes. “Your Majesty,” she began, offering him a dazzling smile. “I have spent years studying the royal customs of your kingdom. I believe I would make a fine queen by your side.”

Michael said nothing.

A third woman, blonde and delicate, gave a soft giggle. “Your Majesty, I hear you are quite the warrior. Perhaps you would like a sparring partner?”

A few noblemen chuckled at her audacity.

Michael merely raised a brow. “Do you know how to wield a sword?”

The woman blinked, startled. “…No, but I—”

“Then you are not my sparring partner,” he said flatly.

Her face flushed with embarrassment.

The queen mother winced, stepping forward with a placating smile. “Michael, these ladies have traveled far to—”

“To sit in this hall, preening like birds, waiting to be chosen,” he interrupted, his voice smooth but sharp. His gaze flickered to the line of candidates. “Tell me. Is there even one of you who desires a husband more than a crown?”

Silence.

A few of the women looked at each other, uncertain how to respond. Others remained carefully composed, unwilling to betray even the slightest sign of weakness.

The answer was obvious.

Michael leaned back in his throne, unimpressed.

The queen mother sighed, rubbing her temple. “Michael, please.”

His jaw tightened. He had little interest in playing this game, but he knew his mother would not let it go. If he refused, she would only bring more candidates, more noblewomen trained to be his wife.

He exhaled.

Fine.

If they wanted him to choose, then he would.

But not the way they expected.

His gaze swept over the room once more.

Then—

He spotted a girl near the far end of the hall.

She wasn’t standing in line with the others. In fact, she was busy scrubbing a stain off the marble floor, her sleeves rolled up, her brown hair messily tied back. She seemed completely unaware of the spectacle happening around her.

A servant.

A talkative one, if he recalled correctly. His sister’s maid who he made clean his study earlier.

Michael tilted his head slightly.

Then, to his mother’s absolute horror, he lifted a hand and pointed.

“Her,” he said.

Silence.

Every noblewoman in the room stiffened, eyes widening in shock.

Maghret’s mouth fell open. “Michael—”

The girl—Lylie, if he remembered correctly—froze mid-scrub, slowly turning her head to see where everyone was staring.

She blinked.

Then pointed to herself. “Uh… me?”

Michael nodded once.

Lylie glanced around, then back at him. “You mean the floor, right? Because I agree, Your Majesty, it is quite stunning. Beautiful choice, excellent taste—”

“The girl,” he said, voice firm.

Lylie stared. “Me?” she repeated, this time with more incredulity.

The queen mother stepped forward, her voice urgent. “Michael, she is a maid—”

“And I am the king,” he said smoothly, “which means I choose whoever I want.”

Murmurs rippled through the hall.

Lylie slowly stood, dusting off her apron. “…Okay, but why?”

Michael’s gaze remained locked onto hers. “Because you don’t want to be chosen.”

The murmurs grew louder.

Lylie gawked at him. “Of course I don’t want to be chosen! I work here! I scrub floors and do laundry! Do you know how much laundry royalty goes through?! It’s insane! I don’t have time to be queen!”

Michael just studied her, his expression unreadable. “And yet, you speak to me without fear.”

Lylie hesitated.

She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing.

The queen mother was still struggling to regain control of the situation. “Michael, this is—this is ridiculous! The nobles will riot!”

Michael’s gaze flicked to her. “Let them.”

Gasps rang through the hall.

Lylie let out a long sigh, rubbing her temple. “Great. Just what I needed. More enemies.”

Maghret stepped closer to her son, her voice low and urgent. “Michael, please. If you insist on rejecting the noblewomen, at least choose someone of status—”

“No,” he said simply.

His mother’s hands clenched at her sides.

Lylie, meanwhile, was still trying to process what was happening. “Hold on, let’s go back a few steps—you want me to marry you?” She gave an awkward laugh. “You do realize who I am, right?”

Michael’s lips twitched slightly. “Oh, I am very aware.”

Lylie narrowed her eyes. “Are you punishing me for something? Because if this is about that one time I might’ve accidentally called you a handsome ghost, then I—”

“It is not a punishment,” Michael interrupted.

“Right, because being thrown into the pit of nobility sounds so fun,” Lylie muttered.

Michael leaned forward slightly, his voice low. “Then refuse.”

Lylie’s breath caught.

Because she could see it now—

He had chosen her because she had nothing to gain.

Because she wasn’t like the others.

Because he wanted to break the system entirely.

And he was challenging her to say no.

Lylie exhaled slowly.

Then, with a smirk, she crossed her arms.

“Fine.”