The first time the Harem Alarm rang, King Aerin Vale was flat on the floor.
This was not symbolic.
This was not poetic.
He had simply tripped over his own cloak.
Aerin lay there, staring at the marble ceiling of the throne hall, one gloved hand still clutching the royal decree he had been attempting—failing—to read with authority. The decree fluttered gently onto his face like it was mocking him.
Silence followed.
Hundreds of eyes stared.
Aerin wished—very sincerely—that the floor would open up and swallow him whole.
"Y-Your Majesty?" someone whispered.
"I'm… fine," Aerin muttered, though his voice cracked halfway through the sentence.
He pushed himself up on his elbows, immediately slipping again because the throne dais had been polished too well. The sound echoed. Someone coughed. Someone else snickered. Aerin felt his ears burn.
This was it.
This was his reign.
King of the most powerful kingdom on the continent.
Defeated by marble.
He finally managed to sit up, hair dishevelled, crown crooked, cloak tangled around his legs like a traitor. His advisors stood frozen nearby, torn between protocol and pity.
Aerin cleared his throat and tried to regain dignity.
"I was, ah," he said, standing too fast and wobbling slightly, "testing the… floor."
The silence deepened.
The High Chancellor closed his eyes.
Aerin looked out over the throne hall. Nobles in elaborate dresses. Delegates from distant lands. Knights lining the walls. And—unfortunately—far too many women.
Beautiful women.
Confident women.
Women who were all, without exception, looking at him like he was either adorable, disappointing, or dinner.
He swallowed.
He had never been good with women.
This was an unfortunate trait for a king whose first official duty was to choose a queen.
The decree in his hands felt heavier than a sword.
"By ancient law," he began, forcing his voice not to shake, "the newly crowned ruler must take a royal consort within one year of ascension."
A murmur rippled through the hall.
Aerin avoided eye contact. If he made eye contact, someone might smile at him. If someone smiled at him, his brain would stop functioning entirely. This had been scientifically proven during his academy years.
"The… candidates," he continued, "will be evaluated for compatibility, virtue, intelligence, and—"
A loud buzz interrupted him.
Aerin flinched so hard he nearly dropped the decree again.
The sound grew louder. Metallic. Rhythmic.
Then—
WEEEOOOO WEEEOOOO WEEEOOOO
The hall erupted into chaos.
A glowing red crystal embedded high above the throne pulsed violently, spinning in place as magical symbols flared to life around it.
The Harem Alarm.
Aerin stared up at it, mouth open.
"No," he whispered. "No, no, no—already?"
The alarm rang again, louder this time.
WEEEOOOO WEEEOOOO
"What does that mean?" a visiting duchess demanded.
"The alarm has activated!" shouted a court mage.
"That's impossible," the High Chancellor said sharply. "The king hasn't even finished the announcement!"
Aerin raised his hands weakly. "I didn't do anything!"
The alarm did not care.
It flashed red.
Then orange.
Then red again.
A magical projection burst into the air, displaying glowing letters that every citizen in the kingdom knew by heart:
⚠ INCOMPATIBLE MATCH DETECTED ⚠
LEVEL: EXTREME
A woman near the front gasped. "Which one of us triggered it?"
Several women immediately turned on each other.
"It was her," one hissed.
"Oh please, it's obviously you."
"I haven't even spoken to him yet!"
Aerin backed up instinctively until he bumped into the throne.
"I—I'm sorry!" he blurted out. "I swear I didn't mean to set it off!"
The High Chancellor pinched the bridge of his nose.
"For the love of the gods," he muttered, "it's going to be a long year."
The alarm finally powered down, leaving behind a ringing silence—and Aerin's dignity in absolute ruins.
Later that night, Aerin hid.
Specifically, he hid in the royal library.
It was the only place in the palace where women did not actively hunt him.
He sat curled on a couch, still in his formal attire, crown resting on a table beside him like it had personally betrayed him. A book lay open in his lap, unread.
"I can't do this," he groaned to no one.
The shelves did not answer.
"I don't know how to talk to them," he continued. "What am I supposed to say? 'Hello, please don't marry me?'"
Earlier that evening, a noblewoman had taken his hand and told him she had already named their children.
He had panicked and knocked over a fruit stand.
He pressed his face into his hands.
"How did my father do this?" he asked the empty room.
The doors creaked open.
Aerin squeaked.
He shot upright so fast he smacked his knee on the table. "Ow—! I mean—Your Majesty is busy!"
A woman stepped inside calmly.
She wore simple court attire, no jewels, no dramatic colours. Dark hair tied neatly back. Sharp eyes that assessed the room—and him—with quiet amusement.
"Relax," she said. "I'm not here to marry you."
Aerin froze.
"…Really?"
"Yes."
He visibly deflated.
"Oh. Thank the gods."
She blinked. "That was fast."
"I'm sorry," he said quickly, flustered. "I mean—no, I didn't mean—It's just—everyone today—"
She laughed.
Not mockingly. Not cruelly.
Just… genuinely.
Aerin stared.
That alone nearly broke him.
"I'm Lina," she said. "I work with the court archives. I was asked to bring you this."
She handed him a thin folder.
He took it carefully, like she might vanish if he moved wrong.
"What is it?"
"A list of all registered candidates," Lina replied. "And a warning."
He swallowed. "About the alarm?"
She nodded. "It doesn't ring randomly. It reacts to emotional resonance."
"…I don't understand."
"It means," she said gently, "that your heart already knows what it doesn't want."
Aerin looked down at the folder, then back at her.
"And what if my heart doesn't know what it does want?"
Lina smiled—soft, unreadable.
"Then," she said, turning to leave, "it'll be a very noisy year."
The door closed behind her.
Aerin sat there in silence.
Somewhere deep in the palace, the Harem Alarm gave a soft, ominous click—like it was listening.