Chapter 60: The Queen’s Decree
Chapter 59: The Queen’s Decree
Lyria’s POV
The courtyard held its collective breath as the Queen rose from her seat at the dais, the long, pale folds of her gown whispering softly against the polished stone. Even from my shadowed corner in the gatehouse, I could see the subtle curve of her lips, the gentle inclination of her head as she regarded the assembly with the practiced warmth of a ruler fully aware of the eyes that watched her every gesture.
"Thank you... all of you," she began, her voice carrying across the courtyard with ease and authority. "Your presence here this afternoon honours both my family and my daughter. It is with the greatest delight that I declare this—the commencement of the competition for the hand of my beloved daughter, Princess Jacinta."
Jacinta smiled at that with pride too. I couldn’t blame her; if my mother said those words to me, then I too would be delighted and proud.
The Queen’s gaze swept the courtyard, lingering briefly on each noble and guest as if to remind them that she observed not only their outward forms but the very measure of their decorum. "I trust that every one of you will conduct yourselves in the utmost propriety," she continued, her voice both gentle and firm. "Remember that your actions today are witnessed, not merely by those present, but across every part of the kingdom, even the parts forgotten. In your own measure, every citizen will partake in what unfolds here. Let this thought temper your words and deeds, for the eyes of many are upon you."
Her glance softened at Jacinta once more. "And, my dear daughter," she added, voice dipping into the quiet warmth of familial affection, "may this day reveal not only your suitors’ talents but also the character and respect that each holds for you."
I observed the subtle exchange, Jacinta’s small nod, the almost imperceptible lift of her brow, and felt a rare sense of anticipation in my chest. Even in the shadows, the weight of the moment settled upon me. Today would reveal far more than mere artistic skill; it would reveal the heart and mind of each man who sought her hand.
With a nod, the Queen signaled to one of her footmen stationed beside the dais. The young man straightened, clutching a scroll of parchment in both hands. He cleared his throat delicately.
I think that had to be a formal procedure when it came to footmen; I had never seen one who didn’t clear their throat before they spoke.
"Your Majesties," he began, voice pitched for all to hear. "And honoured guests," he added, inclining his head respectfully. "The competition of today is to be undertaken thusly: Each candidate is to render a drawing or painting of Princess Jacinta, portraying her as the very Moon of our Empire. Furthermore, each artist is to convey, in their work, their perception of the Princess herself: her beauty, yes, but also what she represents in totality. What inspires them in her presence, what light she casts upon the world, and the essence they discern in her character. It is from these works that judgment will be rendered. The candidate whose work most deeply resonates with the Princess shall be granted considerable favour, including additional time with her in private consultation relative to the other suitors."
I shifted slightly as I listened. The footman’s tone, though formal, carried the sort of gravity reserved for announcements of life-altering consequence. Every syllable he spoke seemed to hang in the air, heavy with the promise of intrigue, rivalry, and revelation.
"You shall have three hours," he continued, "to produce a work that is as remarkable in its execution as it is in its understanding. Make use of every brushstroke and every pigment at your disposal, for today is not merely a test of skill, but of heart, perception, and respect."
A faint murmur rippled through the crowd. Some suitors shifted their feet, others smoothed their gloves or straightened the collars of their coats, but all eyes were on Jacinta or the easels already arranged in their precise arc. I could feel the tension thrumming like a faint vibration through the courtyard stones themselves.
The Queen inclined her head once more, her smile softening further. "I trust that each of you will strive to create a work worthy of your own abilities and, most importantly, one that honours my daughter. May your efforts today reflect not only your skill, but your admiration, your reverence, and your understanding of her as she truly is."
Then, with quiet dignity, she returned to her seat. A collective stillness fell over the courtyard, the kind of silence that precedes the crack of a bell or the turning of a page, heavy with expectation.
The King rose from his seat beside her. He lifted a hand, and the bell beside the dais chimed, clear and resonant. The sound cut through the hushed tension, echoing across the walls of the courtyard and signaling the official commencement of the competition.
I could feel my pulse quicken despite myself. Even here, obscured in shadows and removed from the easels and pigments, anticipation prickled along my nerves. I wanted to see what the suitors would create. What colors they would choose, what strokes they would employ, and, most intriguingly, how they would interpret Jacinta’s essence in their work.
Some of the candidates already leaned forward to dip brushes into carefully arranged palettes, others hesitated, hands hovering over canvas as if seeking inspiration from the very air around them. I imagined the thoughts running through their minds: notions of beauty, of power, of influence, and perhaps even vanity. How each would translate these ideas into lines, shadows, and hues was a mystery I ached to witness.
In simple terms, I was rather excited for this. I noticed Earl Hawthorne first; he used the edge of the brush to scratch an itch in his scalp as his brows furrowed slightly.
I was very certain he was asking himself what exactly he was to paint for the competition.
