At breakfast the next morning, I smile and laugh, trying to put on a good face. The suitors are now required to eat every meal with me, my father claiming that it will be a good way for me to get to know them better.

"If you are so opposed to marrying someone you don't know, why do you push them away?" he had asked me the previous day. Believing that eating meals with them was an easy solution, I am now required to do so.

This morning, I sit at the head of the table, my father at the other end. I can feel his eyes watching me, can feel him monitoring my every movement like a hawk watching its prey. So I smile as genuinely as possible and attempt to strike up a conversation with the person sitting next to me, knowing that if I start behaving, later it will be easier to convince my father to do what I want.

Unfortunately for me, this particular morning I am placed next to Colin and a dreary, grouchy man named Henry.

Starting a pleasant conversation with these two is going to be impossible.

Who should I try to talk to first? Neither option looks very appealing to me. On one hand, I have Henry who seems more interested in his potatoes than in anything else. On the other, I have Colin, who has already shown me what kind of a man he is.

I make my decision after a few more moments of contemplating.

"So where are you from?" I ask Colin, moving a strawberry around on my plate. He stares at me for a second, as if he is surprised that I chose to speak to him.

"The east." His answer is short and abrupt.

The east is a mountainous region, usually cold and snowy. I wonder if the frigid air there is what gave him such a disagreeable personality.

"So your family..." I say. My father's eyes are still on me, so I tilt my head and give a little smile.

"What about them?" he asks. His tone went from angry to hostile in an instant.

I just laugh, as if I find this humorous rather than insulting. "Are you from a noble lineage?"

Colin just glowers into his toast. "Does that really matter?"

I'm taken back by the question. Most men here are elated to boast about their noble titles, flaunting them as if they are the only important thing in this world. I had expected for Colin to be exactly the same, which is why I chose to ask him this particular question.

"Actually, I don't think it matters that much," I say to him truthfully. "I'm just trying to maintain a pleasant conversation with you, but you're making it extremely difficult."

I say the words with a sort of sharp kindness, a tone that my mother had used on me many times before.

Colin lets out a breath of air from his nose, his fingers pressing on the crease in his napkin. "I'm sorry, my lady. I just wasn't ready for the question and allowed for my emotions to overtake me. Please forgive me." 

I almost choke on the sip of water I'm taking.

"It's... quite alright..." I manage to squeeze out past the coughs. Colin just raises an eyebrow at me and then looks back down at his food.

He had just apologized? I didn't think he was capable of feeling remorse, let alone publicly expressing it. 

It had definitely seemed genuine. I study him, looking for a reason to be angry.

I can't find it in his broad shoulders, in his ocean blue eyes, in his dark brown hair. I can't find it in the way he tilts his head downwards, in the way his forehead wrinkles, in the way his slender fingers grip the silver fork in his left hand.

I can't find a reason to hate him at all, now.

I try and hold onto the anger that I used to have for him, but it slips through my fingers like water, dripping onto the floor and away from my hands.

Suddenly, I feel guilty. This whole time I have been choosing to hate each of these men, giving them no chance to show me who they were. I had immediately placed a label on every single one of them, hating them because of my father and not because of who they had shown themselves to be.

Part of me is still upset, is still hurt at the way Colin treated me when we first met. But instead of facing him with the malice of before, I will now try and treat him with kindness. Just because I don't like him, doesn't give me the right to be unnecessarily rude. 

I swallow down any of my residual emotion and try to strike up conversation again. 

"Tell me about your family," I say.

Colin pushes his plate away from him, movements slow and almost sorrowful.

"There's nothing to tell," he responds, and his normally sharp voice is soft around the edges, lacking its defensiveness.

I recognize this pain, realize the expression on his face is one that has been reflected on my own, one I have stared at in the mirror, wishing my life had turned out differently. He may be blunt and harsh, but now I can see behind it. 

I don't speak right away, trying to figure out how to respond. Before I can, he stands. 

"Excuse me," he mumbles, his chair scraping against the floor. He turns away after giving a low bow, his eyes not meeting my own. 

"I'm sorry." By the time the apology escapes my mouth, he is too far away to hear it.

The dining hall is now empty save for me and my father. The once bustling room is now hollow, longing for the joyous laughter and cheerful conversation of merely minutes before. I scuff my heel against the stone, reluctant to stand up and have the conversation I know is inevitable.

But the necessity of it hangs over me, so I stand, stepping carefully, making sure my feet barely make a sound against the ground.

I give a little curtsey, head bowed to the floor.

"Father," I say to him. The word feels filthy in my mouth and I try not to say it as if I am spitting out something gross. I wait for him to speak before raising my head again.

"It looks like you are starting to come to your senses, Evelynne," the King says to me. He remains seated.

"I have," I say to him. "I wanted to apologize for my behavior yesterday. It was uncalled for and I made myself look foolish."

I think this is the hardest thing I have ever had to do in my entire life, apologizing to him like this.

This isn't for me, I remind myself. This isn't for me. It's for them, for the men whom, despite being air headed and pompous, don't deserve to die.

If there is something I can do to stop this bloodshed, it is my burden to try.

"I accept your apology," the King says. He looks triumphant, as if he has just won some sort of battle. "It is very mature of you to apologize to me and I thank you for that."

His voice is soft, the gentleness of it pressing down on my chest and making it hard to breathe. This is the voice he used to use with my mother, back when we were happy and everything was okay. Hearing it now only makes me sad.

"I have a request," I say. "Watching these men die..."

I have to swallow down the emotion rising in my voice before continuing. My father's cold eyes are trained on my face, his unwavering gaze like prickling needles. I resist the urge to rub at my temple.

"I don't wish for any other men to die in this tournament," I finish. "It's just not right."

My father remains silent. I can see the gentleness slowly being replaced, slowly being taken over by the ever present rage.

"Why?" The single world is short and clipped.

I make sure and take a deep breath before beginning, remembering the words I had gone over in my head all morning. I had prepared for this, had thought of everything my father would want to hear an spun the words together like a spider spinning a web.

"This is senseless killing that pains me to watch. I don't wish for a bloodbath to occur in my name." I articulate each word with careful precision, making sure my voice is clear and empty.

I sound like my father.

It makes me sick.

"These men knew what they signed up for," he responds.

I had anticipated this response, so it is easy to answer him now.

"I however, was not. I don't wish to marry a man who is willing to take a life so needlessly. A king should make his choices carefully and by his own free will. By forcing them to kill you are simply making them puppets."

I am taking a bit of a gamble by saying this. I know that having an obedient husband is the goal of this tournament, is the whole reason my father is holding it in the first place. However, I also know that my father values independence above all things, prides himself on making choices carefully and with much calculation.

"Will changing this detail of the tournament allow for your complete cooperation?"

Nails digging into my palm, I take a deep breath.

I knew he would ask this, yet the question still hurts. "Yes sir."

"Well then," my father says after a pause. "I will allow the remaining combatants to remain alive, as long as you promise not to protest this tournament any longer."

"Thank you," I say to him, giving a low curtsy, tilting my head downwards so he can't see my face.

He gives a wave of his hand, signaling my dismissal. I turn away from him.

I know I should feel relieved, should be happy at the outcome of our conversation. Yet, my heart is heavy as I walk away, the chains that my father has on me only tightening around my wrists, around my ankles, around my neck.

I will never be free.