The Selection (Troyler AU)

♔Part XI♔

Tyler POV

You are Prince Tyler Oakley of Illéa, I reminded myself for what must've been the thousandth time since leaving my room,And the Prince of the nation does not get nervous about meeting a group of young women. Especially when one of them is meant to be your future wife.

I repeated the mantra in my head as a meandered throughout the many corridors of the palace, taking a slightly longer route than usual in my effort to procrastinate meeting the girls as much as possible. Of course, I have no right to assume that they're all horrible, heinous creatures, or that they were all complete bitches, but that didn't mean I was in any rush to acquaint myself with them. Not to mention the fact that I also have no idea what they think of me. Some of the girls could think me petty and shallow, only here for the glamorous looking Two-born girls, and some could think I'm desperate for a girl to love me, and some could think I just need someone to marry so that I can finally have the crown in my possession.

Another thing I don't feel up to figuring out what the intentions of the girls may be. I'd like to believe that they're all sweet-hearted girls that truly want to get the chance to know me and marry me like anyone else, but that's a naive way to think. I guess it would help me eliminate more girls, if I find out that they're here for the crown, or purely the chance to be a One ( though I suppose I could understand, for the ones of the poorer castes ) or, God forbid, in it to simply seduce the me.

Those ones would be the first ones gone. I have no interest in that particular department with any of them whatsoever.

Another reason I was hesitant to meet them was because I hadn't slept well last night. Last minute nerves kept me up until the early hours of the morning, and even Connor's demeanor was dimmer than usual when he helped me this morning, not helping my bitter mood in the slightest. I know I look bad, too; Connor himself suggested that I put on some sort of concealer to cover the prominent shadows under my eyes. It wasn't meant in an insulting way - he sounded too concerned for it to be that - but if he gave any impression that I didn't look my absolute best, you know something's off.

I greeted the mandatory guards standing outside the way to the dinner hall, and they nodded once in respect before moving aside. I paused for a moment before entering, my shoulders slumping as I went over the fact that my future wife is in that room, and I don't even know who she is. But I know I don't want to marry her.

Before I could convince myself that faking an illness was a good idea, when my father is in the room, I pushed through the doors, entering the room with the thirty-five potential brides.

Nothing could have prepared me for this.

As soon as I took one footstep inside, an immediate shift in the room occurred. Everyone in the room - excluding my parents - stood up, curtsying in a minimal fashion, as they didn't have much room between their chairs and the table. Their colorful skirts brushed noisily across the floor. The ones who wore their hair down in any way had colorful locks swinging in every direction, covering many faces from my view. Several of the Ladies blushed at my entrance ( though so many of them were wearing an excess of blush, that it may have been unnatural for most ), and most adorned bashful smiles. Very little would meet my eyes but a select few that I could pick out quickly from their applications: Bethany, Zoella, Emma, and Carrie, being among them.

Grinning in what I hoped was an easing smile, I placed my hands up, and said,"Please, no need to stand, Ladies. Go ahead and enjoy your meals, no need to interrupt." They shared glances with one another, grinning with obvious glee. Encouraged by their overall excited behavior, I took my seat, my smile relaxing on its own.

I sat at the end of the table, flanked by my parents. Normally, I hated being in such close proximity to my father, but my mother's reassuring smile calmed me enough to barely notice he was there. "I suppose we can call for the food now, then," my mother said, looking at me but still addressing the entire table. For the most part, they remained composed, nodding demurely in assent, but to my amusement, Emma bobbed her head up and down in a robust motion. She must've redone her hair, since is was an orange-red color, unlike the dark brown in the picture on her form. I would've laughed at her behavior had my father not been giving her a disapproving glare from across the table. She didn't notice it, but I had a feeling that my father won't want her here long.