The rest of the journey was spent in silence.
Samara sat rigidly in her seat, hands folded in her lap, eyes fixed on the small window beside her. Outside, the scenery blurred into a muted wash of green and brown as the carriage rolled steadily forward. Inside her head, however, there was no such quiet.
She replayed the coming days over and over again, arranging and rearranging her behavior like pieces on a board.
'Kindness. Submission. Polite. Ever-smiling.'
She mouthed the words silently, as if reciting a spell. They tasted foreign on her tongue. None of them came naturally to her, and that alone made her uneasy. She had survived most of her life by being sharp, defiant, unyielding. Now she was expected to be the opposite.
'Smile first. Speak softly. Do not react.'
If Elise could see her now, Samara thought bitterly, she would either laugh or say, 'I warned you.'
The carriage slowed, the change in momentum pulling Samara from her thoughts. The wheels crunched against gravel before coming to a gradual stop. A murmur rippled through the carriage, excitement seeping into the air like smoke.
Samara straightened instinctively.
When the door opened, light flooded in—and with it, a sight that made even Samara pause.
The training house stood tall and imposing beyond the gates. It was nothing like the cramped, functional structures she had imagined. This place was grand. Pale stone walls gleamed in the daylight, ivy trailing elegantly along the edges. Tall windows reflected the sky, and the iron gates themselves were crafted with ornate designs that spoke of wealth and careful planning.
For a moment, Samara forgot to breathe.
'If this is only the training house…' she thought, unease and curiosity tangling in her chest. 'Then what does the palace look like?'
Gasps echoed around her as the other girls stepped out of the carriage. Awe lit their faces, mouths falling open as their gazes darted everywhere at once. Even Samara noticed it—how every single girl seemed overwhelmed.
All except one.
Samara's eyes flicked toward the quiet girl standing a short distance away. She remained still, expression neutral, as if the grandeur before her was nothing new. That alone sparked Samara's curiosity.
'What kind of life have you lived,'she wondered, 'to look at this and feel nothing?'
The girls were herded together into a wide courtyard. Samara counted them automatically—an old habit she couldn't quite suppress.
Six per carriage.
Six carriages.
Thirty-six.
They stood in loose rows, adjusting dresses, whispering nervously. Samara rolled her shoulders subtly, grounding herself. This wasn't the forest. This wasn't a fight she could win with speed or strength.
This required something else entirely.
The double doors ahead opened.
Silence fell as a woman stepped out.
She held her chin high—not in arrogance, but in absolute certainty. She walked with the kind of confidence that came from knowing her place in the world and having earned it. Her attire was elegant but restrained, tailored to command respect rather than admiration. Her beauty was undeniable, though faint lines at the corners of her eyes spoke of years lived with discipline and responsibility.
Samara immediately recognized her as dangerous.
"Welcome to the training institute," the woman said, her voice composed and authoritative.
Six servants stepped forward behind her, their movements synchronized, practiced.
"Here," the woman continued, "only the top six skilled shall qualify to serve the royal family. No cheating shall be tolerated."
Her gaze swept across the crowd, sharp and measuring.
"We shall accommodate you as long as you pass each round. However, should you fail even a single one, you will be sent home with immediate effect."
A ripple of tension spread through the group.
"Three skills will be assessed," she said calmly. "Cooking. Cleaning. And your ability to cope under pressure."
Samara's lips pressed together.
'Pressure,' she thought. 'That one I can do.'
"I alone will decide whether you pass or not," the woman added. "I do not take bribes. So I suggest you rely on your own abilities."
With that, she turned and disappeared back into the building.
The servants stepped forward.
"Please divide yourselves into groups of six," one of them said with a polite smile. "One of us will guide each group to their designated wing."
Lina immediately grabbed Samara's arm, excitement radiating off her. "We're already six!" she announced.
Samara blinked, surprised at the sudden contact, but allowed herself to be pulled along. The others in the carriage followed without protest. It didn't matter how the groups were formed—competition would be the same regardless.
A servant approached them.
A male servant.
Samara noticed it instantly—not just because he was the only one, but because of how striking he was. His features were soft yet refined, his posture elegant, movements graceful. He carried himself with effortless poise.
"I see you are already organized," he said warmly. "I will be responsible for your group throughout your stay. You may call me Althea."
Samara stared.
The words slipped out before she could stop them.
"You are very beautiful."
Silence crashed down around them.
Several girls stared at her in shock.
Samara, oblivious, continued, "Where I used to live, such beauty is rare. Perhaps if I fail this selection, I'll marry you."
Althea smiled politely. "That would be wonderful," he said gently, "but I am no man."
Samara's eyes widened.
Judgment crackled through the air as the girls exchanged glances. Samara barely noticed.
"Even if you are an eunuch, you have no idea what I—"
A hand clamped over her mouth.
"What she means," Stacey said quickly, laughing lightly, "is that you are very… nice."
Althea's smile did not falter.
After Stacey removed her hand from Samara's mouth, the air felt unbearably heavy.
For a heartbeat, no one spoke.
Samara remained frozen, lips parted mid-thought, suddenly very aware of the way several pairs of eyes were fixed on her. The courtyard that had moments ago buzzed with excitement now seemed to hold its breath, as if waiting to see whether she would dig herself deeper—or be dragged down by her own recklessness.
Heat crept up Samara's neck.
She hadn't meant to offend anyone. The words had simply slipped out, unfiltered, as they always did. In the forest, honesty was currency. Here, it felt dangerously close to a crime.
The girls closest to her exchanged glances—quick, sharp looks filled with unspoken judgment. One of them let out a quiet scoff before turning away. Another subtly stepped half a pace back, as though Samara's presence alone had become something contagious.
Samara swallowed.
'So this is how it works here,' she thought. 'Say the wrong thing once, and they remember.'
Stacey's hand lingered for a fraction of a second longer on Samara's arm before dropping away. She leaned closer, her smile still fixed but her voice barely above a whisper.
"You're going to get yourself expelled before we even unpack," Stacey murmured, eyes flicking briefly toward Althea.
Samara opened her mouth to respond, then stopped herself.
'Kindness. Submission. Polite. Ever-smiling.'
She forced her lips into a smile that felt stiff and unnatural, the muscles in her face protesting the unfamiliar expression. It was unsettling how quickly she had to remind herself to perform.
Althea, for his part, did not seem offended.
If anything, his expression remained serenely composed, his posture unchanged. The polite curve of his lips never faltered, though there was a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes—amusement, perhaps, or quiet curiosity.
"It is quite all right," he said smoothly, his voice calm enough to dissolve some of the tension. "Honesty is not a flaw. Merely… misunderstood in certain places."
Samara blinked.
She hadn't expected that.
A few of the girls relaxed marginally, though their wariness remained. The damage, Samara sensed, had already been done. First impressions mattered here—and hers had been loud, unrestrained, and inappropriate.
She exhaled slowly through her nose.
'You are not at home anymore,' she reminded herself. 'You cannot fight your way through this.'
"Please lead us, Althea," she said again, this time softer, measured. Her tone was almost unrecognizable—even to herself.
Althea inclined his head, acknowledging the shift.
"As you wish."
As they followed him into the training house, Samara became acutely aware of her movements. She kept her hands folded, her steps even, her gaze forward. Every instinct screamed to loosen up, to speak freely—but she buried them all beneath layers of restraint.
The interior was breathtaking, yet she barely allowed herself to marvel at it. Polished floors reflected the light like glass. Pillars rose gracefully toward a ceiling etched with delicate patterns. Everything felt fragile and expensive—like one wrong step could shatter it.
Twice, Samara drifted slightly behind, distracted by the details. Each time, Althea paused and gently reminded them to stay together. No scolding. No sharpness. Just calm redirection.
That, somehow, made it worse.
When they reached their wing, Samara felt relief wash over her—temporary safety in the form of closed doors and assigned rooms.
Inside her shared chamber, she finally let herself relax.
She tossed her bag down, fingers brushing against the folded uniforms. They were plain, simple, devoid of personality. Nothing like her own clothes.
She glanced at the quiet girl—Tessa—who moved with efficient silence, unpacking only what was necessary.
Samara hesitated before speaking again.
Earlier embarrassment still clung to her like a second skin.
"What's your name?" she asked, keeping her tone neutral.
"Tessa," came the curt reply.
No warmth. No curiosity.
Samara nodded slowly, absorbing the unspoken boundary.
'Not everyone will forgive first impressions,'she thought.
When she finally lay back on the bed, the softness startled her into a quiet groan. It felt indulgent—dangerously so. Her eyes drifted shut as exhaustion claimed her, but even as sleep pulled her under, one thought lingered.
'If I can't control my mouth,' she realized, 'this place will eat me alive.'