A feminine body. You slip on a light blue tunic over your undergarments.

You’re only just clothed when the door to your room opens. A portly man you’ve known all your life stumbles to a stop, hand still on the iron knob. “Begging your pardon, LordSamantha. Given the importance of the day I thought it necessary to rouse you early.”

“There is such a thing as knocking, Harmon,” you say, but you wave the old advisor in anyway. He’s seen you swaddled and naked as a babe, and broken and in mourning as a {if male = true} man {elseif female = true} woman {endif}. What’s one intrusion on a rare day?

“Begging your pardon still, Lord.” Harmon closes the door behind him and stops two arms away while you continue dressing and grooming yourself. “All of your would-be suitors have arrived, one in the night, two in the pre-dawn hours, one just moments ago: the woman, Madeline. Each have been given housing per your council’s guidance. Each seem happy, if not very eager to meet you.”

You nod, cuffing your sleeves, donning your boots.

“Would you like to hear a little about them?” he asks.

“Certainly.”

“The er, lady Madeline, who I mentioned,” he says, unfurling a long piece of parchment and scanning it with his eyes, “has been given temporary quarters near the castle’s training grounds. I believe some of her, ah, contingent, is already making use of its facilities.”

You smile a little, as you think you can hear the distant clinking of swords from here.

“She is professed a queen by her people, though she is hardly of traditional royal stock. King Vincent -- may the Gods take his soul peacefully -- awarded her the title in recognition for her and her tribe’s assistance in the war. Her people are nomadic, traveling under her banner in the wildlands. Their efforts keep the bulk of its monstrosities from entering Demys’ borders.” Harmon pauses. “Not a very traditional pairing, though her impressive forces would be a handsome way to bolster our own.”

“And the others?” you ask.

Harmon clears his throat. “There is Duke Ravi, of course. He is second in line to his mother’s throne, and a reputed scoundrel, which if you don’t mind me saying, Lord, isn’t so uncommon where he’s from. Marrying him would earn you an impressive dowry of fine pelts and exotic meats. His mother is usually stingy with trade from her lands, so the riches would be a boon, absolutely. We’ve housed him -- at his request -- in the wood surrounding Knothole Castle. In the south clearing, of course, furthest from the bears’ nesting grounds.”

You hum, running a comb through your hair.

Harmon continues. “There is the duchess, Lyra, an intriguing one. She arrived in the night with a retinue of strange steeds that glowed. We spotted them from the king’s road even. Yes, there’s a fair bit of magic about her -- rare, indeed -- and she and her accompaniment have been quieter than mice, as well as watchful as hawks. We’ve set her and her people up in apartments near the library.”

“Lastly,” he goes on, taking a breath. “There is our future King, firstborn son of King Vincent and Queen Dorelia: Prince Vaughn, though he already seems more Kingly than Princely. He arrived hours ago with an impressive royal guard who have not left his side, and has been housed as instructed in the tower suites. Our attendants have reported that the Prince has made full use of the space already, turning it into something of a war room. He is rumored to be quite intent on meeting you, Lord, though were I you, I would only visit with the suitors you’re interested in. Time is precious, after all.”

“I understand,” you say, and put on the finishing touch: a broach with your family’s crest, an emerald stag.

Harmon rolls the parchment back up and sticks it in his coat pocket. “Now, the fete is tonight, of course, though your official decision need not come until tomorrow. Try to get to know the suitors you’re interested in and” -- he smiles, like a proud parent almost -- “good luck, Samantha. I know this step is hard, but your council knows you’ll make the perfect choice for you and our territories.”

“Thank you, Harmon,” you say. You put a hand on his shoulder. “You worry too much. How hard can choosing a match really be?”