The Royal Palace of the Kingdom of Sain.

Inside the vast, majestic hall, the king, ministers, nobles, knights, and five eligible royal candidates had gathered. With so many members of the royal bloodline and a world that valued talent above all, the "Royal Election" system had been established since the second king’s reign to ensure the most capable ruler ascended the throne. This was now the twelfth succession.

Solemn hymns echoed through the hall. Everyone knelt on one knee except the aging monarch. A clergyman recited the election rules, invoking divine witness over the proceedings.

The five candidates were ranked by ability and prestige: the First Successor held primary claim to the throne. If the First Successor died within ten years of coronation, the Second Successor would take their place. Should the First reign beyond a decade, the Second could only serve as regent until a new election. Only if their combined reigns totaled less than ten years would the Third Successor inherit—otherwise, another election would be called. In essence, candidates ranked fourth or lower stood little chance. These rules had kept Sain’s throne in capable hands while ensuring stable transitions.

"From this day forth," the clergyman announced, "the Royal Election commences. Succession rankings will be updated annually until the throne changes hands." Such elections typically began three to five years before the king’s expected demise.

The three men and two women—all of royal blood, whether direct or collateral lines—swore oaths before the king and the Sacred Tome. Any with talent could compete if endorsed by the royal family or one of the five earls. Though six candidates were theoretically possible, past years saw only two or three. This year’s five sparked whispers: was this a sign of coming turmoil? Or perhaps a golden age, with five peerless geniuses bearing the makings of kings?

...

At the Golden Grape Estate, Lanche was cramming his wicker chair into a carriage.

"You’re bringing *that*?" Lekui frowned.

"Well... it’s my hard-crafted throne. Still sturdy after all this time..." Lanche hesitated, reluctant to abandon it.

"Bring it," Miss Christia said as she approached.

"Yes, Miss," Lekui bowed respectfully, saying no more.

"Thanks, my queen!" Lanche cheered.

Miss Christia gave a soft *hmph*, ignoring him.

"All luggage is loaded, Miss Christia. We’re ready to depart," the head coachman reported.

Christia nodded, eyeing the three fully packed wagons. A year’s stay had accumulated surprising baggage—ornate furniture bought to uphold noble appearances, shelves of storybooks Lanche insisted on collecting, and trunks filled with Liya and Lekui’s gowns, jewels, and gold coins. *This caravan will surely attract bandits*, she thought.

The estate’s true owner, a nobleman, emerged from the emptied villa with servants. "Your signature here, Miss Christia," he smiled, presenting a contract.

She signed the lease termination without comment.

After verifying the document, the nobleman bowed. "Safe travels to the Royal Domain, Miss Christia. May fortune favor you."

"Your blessing is appreciated, Viscount Malga," Christia replied with a curtsey.

As the caravan rumbled away, Lanche suddenly blinked from his carriage seat. "Where’s Mr. Sileus?"

"Only noticing now? He left for the Royal Domain days ago to secure our lodgings," Christia said from across the cabin.

"Oh. Right." Lanche nodded.

Silence fell, broken only by the carriage’s rattling. Liya and Lekui guarded valuables in another wagon. Alone in the cramped space, Lanche and Christia sat stiffly on opposite benches, each staring out their window.

*I wish I were with Lekui*, Lanche sighed inwardly. *At least I could tease the maid*. But Christia had arranged it this way.

Beyond the window, Fokxas City faded as hills and forests rolled into view. Burdened by luggage, the caravan crawled forward, guards marching alongside on foot. They halted at noon to stretch, nibble dried rations, and press on. By nightfall, the coachmen bedded down on the ground while Lanche claimed the carriage bench. Christia sat rigidly in her corner, wide awake.

"I can sleep outside if you’d prefer," Lanche offered.

Christia gazed out the window for a long moment. "Do as you like. I don’t care."

Lanche grinned. "Then I’ll stay right here." He fluffed a cotton pillow and stretched out on the bench. Though too short for full recline, the padded seat was comfortable enough.

Across from him, Christia pressed herself into the corner, cheeks tight with tension. *Alone like this... it’s only proper to seem nervous. We are married, after all... right?*

"Goodnight," Lanche murmured, already closing his eyes. Unburdened, he drifted off instantly.

"G-goodnight," Christia whispered. Only when his breathing deepened did she steal glances at his face. Handsome—exactly the pretty-boy standard he’d bragged about. Yet what fascinated her was his ease. How could a talentless, powerless man carry himself with such calm? Did he truly not care?

Resting her chin on her palm, she studied him in the dim light. Unblinking. Unbored. Lost in thought.