The scent of honey and citrus clung to the air, a signature of the Southern court's fastidious elegance wafting through the marble palace. Naomi stood still, her posture stiff with practiced grace, hands clasped behind her silken sleeves. At twelve, she would be the youngest of the Southern heirs to attend an Accord - if she could pass the public trial held in Monroe’s capital, Thaibarrus. The trial itself was not difficult, merely a display of proof that the inheritor did in fact possess the lineage’s powers of the sun, and of course, their ability to withstand the judgement of high society. In the South, every detail was scrutinized and picked apart, and no corner of the room was safe from watchful eyes. For political gain, people would smile at your face before stabbing you in the back, smiling genuinely at your demise. In Monroe, they call the political game of cat and mouse, "The Game”, and those who could not keep up didn’t merely stumble - they surrendered: their family’s honor, or their life.
Before her stretched the noble houses of Monroe, dozens draped in robes of cream and gold, in a fan-shaped formation. In front of them all, stood Naomi Rosenthorn - dressed in an elaborate golden dress with full sleeves - the sole heir to the Duchy of Monroe. Even as a mere child, the nobles could not help but question if she inherited the Rosenthorn’s revered radiant magics, her intellect, and of course, her appearance. Wrong as it was - Naomi understood even at her age that this was simply the culture of Monroe.
Stand tall. Smile intentionally. Speak carefully. Her mother’s instructions echoed like scripture in her head.
She straightened her back as the trumpets began to blare, signaling her to walk forward into the throne hall of Monroe - all around her was nothing short of perfection with polished floors that gleamed like mirrors, chandeliers dripped in crystal, and golden sun motifs glowed faintly on every column.
The crowd stilled as Naomi stepped forward, her footsteps silent against the red carpet. Her golden sleeves shimmered like molten sun under the skylights, every inch of her a curated heirloom. She stopped at the foot of the marble dais, where a judge in white robes waited above with a single scroll.
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"Naomi Rosenthorn," the judge intoned, voice carrying across the chamber. "Do you come to claim your place as heir, sworn under the Calypsa Kingdom?"
"I do," Naomi said steadily. She could see the straight-eyed stares of the Duke and Duchess - her parents - boring into the back of her head from their thrones.
The judge nodded for her to continue. “Proceed with the Scripture of Light. Prove your blood.”
She lifted her hand, palm upwards as she took a deep breath and curled her fingers inwards. In a flash, the golden sigil of House Rosenthorn formed in a floating orb of light. Her pale blue eyes began to glow in a muted hue of gold, her long platinum hair floating softly in a ring around her shoulders. Naomi lifted her chin and her voice rang out, clear and composed:
“O Lunare, the first full moon,
Giver of life, bearer of will.
Hear the call of the sun,
Your forgotten Consort.
From your breath was hope shaped,
From your tears, power is made.
By your shard, I am not merely born;
I am chosen. And so I shine,
By your grace."
A pulse of golden light erupted from her chest, blooming outward in a radiant halo. A few flinched as others shielded their eyes from the holy light, but Naomi stood firm, bathed in the brilliance. A ring of gold lit the air around her, floating briefly before fading into motes.
The judge cleared his throat as he declared among the hushed crowd. “The heir of Monroe endures with Naomi Rosenthorn, chosen of the light.”
Only then did the crowd applaud, cheering and calling her name as she could feel the sigh of relief from the Duke and Duchess. But Naomi did not smile. She did not need to.
After all, in Monroe, brilliance did not beg for applause. It expected silence - and submission.
