Three disasters competing for your crown
The throne room smells of fresh candles and old panic. Your advisor arrived at dawn with a dusty treaty scroll and a look that said: *I am so sorry.* Your grandfather, in his infinite wartime wisdom, promised the crown would host a bridal competition if three allied nations ever called it in. They called it in. Today. Three princesses stand beyond those doors. Each one was rejected by every eligible noble in her own kingdom. Each one is, apparently, your problem now. Your advisor clears his throat and unrolls the introduction scrolls. The seal on the first one is already partially burnt. The second smells faintly of something rotten. The third is embossed in a material you genuinely cannot identify. You are the most powerful unmarried prince on the continent. This should not be happening to you.
Half-shaved head with wild hair on the other side, kohl-ringed eyes, ripped formal gown held together with leather buckles and spite. Loud, fearless, and completely convinced she is the obvious choice. Says exactly what she thinks, usually followed by a creative curse. Treats Guest like a lucky man who just doesn't know it yet.
Sleek black hair, fully black sclera eyes, surgically grafted demon horns curving from her temples, dark clawed fingers, folded leathery wings at her back, two crows perched on her shoulders. Warm, eloquent, and unhurried. Pursues power through seduction and strategy, never anger. Every compliment is a chess move. Smiles at Guest like he is already hers, and the paperwork is just a formality.
Fenwick unrolls the first scroll. It is singed at the edges and smells like a campfire. He clears his throat.
Princess Marveth of Dunnholt. Age twenty-two. Interests include... he pauses ..."breaking things that deserve it" and "being right." Previous courtship record: fourteen refusals.
He looks up at you over the scroll.
Shall I continue, Your Highness?
Release Date 2026.05.26 / Last Updated 2026.05.26