The Second Round, Selection of the Royal Consort of Avalon.
That morning, Gwenevere opened Aerith's chamber door without waiting for permission. Draped over her arm was a gown of silvery-blue silk, light as mist, with delicate embroidery along the sleeves.
"Today you must be eliminated with dignity," she said as she hung the gown before the mirror. "You cannot bring shame upon Moonstone. Wear this beautiful dress, have your hair bound in an elegant bun, add a faint touch to your lips, walk slowly. Yes, if you are eliminated today, you will be eliminated with a dazzling appearance."
Aerith gazed at the gown for a long moment. Beautiful, just like the dresses owned by the other ladies.
"Are you sure I should wear this, Madam? I mean… this is too perfect," Aerith murmured, trying to understand Gwenevere's line of thought.
"Elegance is necessary. I will not have you looking pitiful." Gwenevere brushed her fingertip across Aerith's cheek, as though smoothing out some hidden hesitation. Secretly, Gwenevere hoped Aerith would be nominated. That was why she was determined to make her shine today.
Once dressed, Gwenevere and Aerith set off for the preparation hall. The gown fell gracefully, its folds concealing the splint on Aerith's ankle. For the first time since arriving at the palace, Aerith looked at her reflection and did not wish to run away. She was not as graceful as Venetia or Mirabelle, but that morning she looked like the best version of herself.
On the way to the hall, a few attendants barely recognized her. At first they thought Aerith might be a noble princess from a neighboring land, come to witness the selection. Only after noticing her half-limping step did they realize that the beautiful lady was none other than Lady Moonstone.
"Lady Moonstone," Venetia greeted when their paths crossed. She paused to study Aerith's appearance, then offered a faint, elegant smile. "Let me guess, the talent you will present today must be 'collapsing'?"
Gwenevere wanted to snap at Lady Venetia, but she was only a servant while Venetia was the daughter of a distinguished noble family.
"Ah, Madam Gwen, do not be so offended," Venetia replied, catching Gwenevere's tense expression. "Was my guess mistaken, then? Very well, Lady Moonstone, I look forward to your performance."
With elegance, Venetia moved on, each step underscoring her dominance. It was enough to make Aerith bite her lip.
"What if Lady Venetia's guess is right?" she whispered.
Gwenevere glared at her. "That will not happen! Remember, we practiced all night, and now you look very beautiful in this gown. Do not bring shame to it with your behavior, understood?"
Aerith nodded softly, and together they continued toward the preparation hall. That morning the hall was crowded and busy. Servants hurried back and forth carrying cosmetics, small snacks, drinks, and various props needed by the Ladies for their performances.
Since Aerith was already properly dressed, had taken breakfast, and wanted no refreshments, Gwenevere only came to collect two silver fans that would complete Aerith's performance. After retrieving them, she guided Aerith to sit among the row of candidates.
By the time they entered, the western hall was already filled. The candidates sat in neat rows, the judges at the front, and the overseer holding a silver scroll. When the bell rang, the overseer stepped forward and announced,
"The second round: the presentation of talents in the royal court," his voice rang clear. "Choices are music, literature, dance, calligraphy, or any art that may benefit the palace. The judges will assess technique, usefulness, and composure."
The audience erupted in excitement at the thought of the Ladies' performances. This session was always eagerly awaited, for beyond its entertainment, it often inspired the young daughters of nobility.
This time, the first place holder of the previous round had the honor of performing first.
Lady Venetia rose, offered a graceful bow, then walked with elegance toward the stage.
"I shall recite a poem of my own writing," she declared, her voice firm yet refined. The audience hushed.
She began with the first stanza, her voice crystalline, her rhythm precise, her diction flowing, until applause burst forth, orderly and sincere. Beyond flawless delivery, Venetia's poem carried layered meanings, stirring awe in all who listened. Her brilliance was undeniable. Surely, Avalon would be fortunate to have such a woman.
Thunderous applause filled the hall as Venetia concluded her four stanzas. She returned to her seat with head held high, her gaze fixed straight ahead.
Next was Lady Mirabelle, who chose to present music. Her fingers plucked the strings of a zither, carrying a breeze through the hall; even the rustling of fans stilled, every ear drawn to the final note.
The King might desire a genius like Venetia, but the grace and soulful depth of Mirabelle's art were equally irresistible. The audience wavered, unsure which performance surpassed the other.
And then, after Mirabelle, it was Aerith's turn. Her name was called. She stood, as if on the slippery surface of ice. As she walked toward the stage with measured grace, a servant came nervously from the opposite direction. The servant stumbled into Aerith.
"Ouch! Forgive me, Lady Moonstone," she gasped as the tray he carried spilled across her face and gown. The servant quickly fumbled for a handkerchief to wipe the lychee juice away, but it was blackened like soot, leaving ugly smears across Aerith's face.
"Aerith, your makeup is ruined!" Gwenevere cried under her breath, rushing forward to scold the careless servant.
The other Ladies shook their heads at the mess unfolding.
"Is this the talent you intend to display, Lady Moonstone?" said Mirabelle, standing not far from the scene. "Ah, I forgot, you are indeed skilled at creating disasters. Surely you crashed into the servant on purpose."
Aerith only exhaled quietly. Her beautiful gown was ruined beyond repair, and her face, she looked no better than a kitchen maid who had not left the scullery all day.
"Madam Gwen, what should I do?" Aerith whispered, bewildered.
Gwenevere shook her head. "Hopeless," she muttered.
The overseer, having noticed the incident, granted Aerith permission to prepare herself while calling upon the next candidate.
***
"This is sabotage!" Gwenevere hissed once they returned to the preparation room.
Aerith removed the gown. "But there is no proof, Madam. That servant was rushing because a Lady was faint from thirst. We have no right to accuse him."
Gwenevere sneered. "If you had a little more brain, you wouldn't be this stubborn! It is clear as day this was sabotage! Someone wants to destroy you!"
Aerith fell silent, the thought making her skin prickle. She drew a deep breath, already wondering how best to be eliminated quickly.
"Damn it! The only dress left is this one!" Gwenevere cursed, glaring at a dull gray gown, pitifully unfit for Aerith. Worse still, there was no time to redo her makeup; the officials had given her only ten minutes.
Aerith glanced at her reflection in the mirror. She looked shabby, as always. But she was used to seeing herself like that. This was her true self.
A bitter smile curved her lips. "Today, I am certain I will be eliminated, Madam Gwen. Forgive me, I have failed to be elegant in losing."
Gwenevere gave no reply. Inwardly, she swore she would expose this sabotage and claim compensation in gold or silver.
"Madam Gwen, it is time for me to go," Aerith murmured, resting her hand lightly on Gwenevere's shoulder. "Do not worry. This will be the last day I trouble you. I am sorry, and thank you."
Without waiting for an answer, Aerith walked out. Her name had been called. She stepped directly toward the stage. As she appeared from the preparation room, whispers rippled among the audience.
"Look, she resembles more a slave being paraded at an auction!"
"Yes, my slave is prettier than her."
"This is an insult to King Lucien. How could one so disgraceful make it as a candidate? Could it be she cheated?"
Lucien heard every murmur from his seat above. He gave no response, but there was no denying it, he sharpened his ears, silently attentive to the whispers echoing through the hall.