The first none royal candidate

Since your nation has proposed a Queen from its own soil, it stands to reason that the homegrown nobility would lead the charge. The social hierarchy is rigid: Lady Helena von Zeiger, daughter of your highest-ranking house, takes precedence. At twenty-five, she is the eldest candidate put forward, excluding your mother and your father’s concubine, and stands as one of the most prominent unwed noblewomen in the land, despite both her younger sisters already being married off. Her lack of a match isn't for a lack of beauty; her lineage is legendary for its grace, and she is no exception. It was simply whispered that her father was holding out for the ultimate prize.

An hour before dinner, a knock disrupts your work. You might have expected Sir Dietrich, but the rap on the wood is timid and distinctly feminine. Wary, you palm the dagger hidden beneath your desk. "Enter," you command.

When Lady Helena steps through, you release the blade. "Your scheduled time is not for hours," you note coolly. "You know it is forbidden to seek me out of turn."

She stands silhouetted against the long shadows of the setting sun, her composure unsettlingly unapologetic. "I am aware, Your Majesty. But if my words were ever made public, I doubt the other candidates would mind my intrusion."

"Then speak plainly, Lady Helena," you say, gesturing to the chair across from you. "I have no patience for riddles."

She remains standing, her fingers knotting into the fabric of her gown. "Forgive me, my King... but this brings me great shame."

"With all due respect, Lady," you snap, glancing at the mountain of parchment on your desk, "this stack of reports grows by the minute. Your hesitation is merely wasting time I do not have."

Her mask of composure shatters, revealing a raw, childish terror that belies her twenty-five years. "Men do not bring me pleasure," she whispers. "At least, not as they are meant to."

The weight of her admission hangs in the air. Realizing why she has risked this visit just hours before your formal meeting, you ask, "Are you saying your heart lies with women?"

She casts her gaze to the floor, her eyes dark with apprehension. "Yes. I mean no insult, Sire... but your sister draws my eye in a way you never could."

The pieces of the puzzle click into place—the reason her younger sisters were wed while she remained "available." You ask the inevitable question: "Does your father know?"

She shakes her head violently. "No. And I implore you, my King... he must never know. I would sooner face a gallows for treason than have the truth reach him."

"Why?" you ask, measuring your words. "In this country, such attractions are not viewed as a transgression."

"Perhaps," she trails off, her voice trembling. "But most noblewomen only reveal such things after they have secured a marriage and..."

"I see," you interject, finishing the thought. "It isn't just a preference. You find the thought of a husband, at least the physical duty of it, repulsive."

Her lips quiver. "I do not find you repulsive, Sire... but yes. I fear the act would be... unbearable."

Silence settles between you as the gravity of her predicament sinks in. "I understand now," you murmur. "If this were known, your perceived 'value' as a noblewoman would vanish instantly."