The Crowns Choice

❦ Chapter Four: Atlas ❦

I'm hunched over the kitchen table, the flickering light of the overhead lamp casting long shadows across the worn surface. The hum of the refrigerator is a constant backdrop to my struggle, and the only sound breaking the silence is the scratch of my pen on the application form in front of me. It's like a twisted joke—one more thing I need to do just to make ends meet. And now, I'm filling out this form for The Crowns Choice.

The questions seem to taunt me, each one more invasive than the last. It's not like I'm expecting to be chosen. The last time there was a Selection for the king, no one from a lower Stratum was even considered. Still, Mum's insistence that I at least give it a shot has led me to this moment, staring down at the blank lines and trying to find the right words to make myself stand out.

Name: Atlas Everheart.

That's easy enough. I scrawl it down with a practised hand. But then, the next line hits me like a brick wall.

Why do you wish to participate in The Crowns Choice?

I stare at the question, my mind a blank slate. I know the expected answer—something about wanting to better myself, to rise above my Stratum, to contribute to the kingdom. But the truth is, I'm here because I don't have much of a choice. I need the money, the opportunity, whatever it might bring. But writing that down feels like admitting defeat, like acknowledging that I'm just a pawn in someone else's game.

I tap the pen against the paper, trying to force some profound thought or noble sentiment to come to mind. Nothing. My thoughts keep circling back to the reality of my situation—struggling to make ends meet, the pressure to provide for my sister, the weight of endless bills. Nothing about this feels glamorous or inspiring. It's a survival mechanism, a chance to grab at something, anything, that might offer a glimmer of hope.

I let out a frustrated sigh and turn to the next question, hoping it'll be easier.

What qualities do you believe you possess that would make you a good match for the princess?

I snort at the absurdity of it. Good match for the princess? I'm from Stratum Five—an area where people are more concerned with keeping food on the table than with romantic ideals. I've never been one for grand gestures or flowery speeches. What makes me a good match for anyone? I'm just trying to get by, to keep my little sister safe and happy.

The pen hovers above the paper as I try to think of something to say. I'm practical, reliable, and hardworking. Those are the qualities that matter in my world. But I know that's not what they're looking for. They want charm, elegance, some story of personal growth or heroism. And I'm not sure I can fake that convincingly.

"Atlas, are you still at that table?" Mum's voice comes from the doorway, breaking my concentration. I glance up to see her standing there, her face lined with concern. "You're going to be late for your photo appointment."

I glance at the clock and realise she's right. The appointment is in less than an hour. I haven't even started on the rest of the application yet, and now I'm feeling the pressure to rush through it.

"Yeah, Mum. I'm just trying to come up with something for this form," I say, running a hand through my hair in frustration. "But it's not going so well."

She walks over and looks at the application, her brow furrowing. "You're doing fine, honey. Just be honest. They're looking for sincerity more than anything."

I shake my head, unable to share my doubts. "It's not that simple. I don't know what to write. Everything I come up with just feels... wrong."

Mum puts a hand on my shoulder, her touch gentle. "You don't have to be someone you're not. Just write what you really feel. That's what will make you stand out."