Welcome to To Build a Throne, my version of the story of the first selection. Everything is explained in my bio, so please take the time to check that out if you are interested in joining. I will have submissions open for every province, and will be accepting 35 girls. If it does not come to that, then I will go with what I have. More details will be in my profile, so once again, please take the time to look at that.

Without further ado, the first chapter of…

To Build a Throne

Chapter One — Glass Table

"With all haste," the maid had told him, but Spencer walked with the least amount of haste he could muster. He sauntered down the long hallways of the fresh, new palace, just recently finished with all renovations, and took his jolly ol' time. The kitchen was not on the way, but he made a stop there anyways, grabbing an apple from a bowl and rubbing it on his white shirt. After taking his first bite, he smiled graciously.

"These apples," he praised, sitting up on the kitchen counter next to one of the ladies in the kitchen staff, "is to die for." He took another (quite sloppy) bite, and wiped away drool that had slipped through his lips and onto his chin.

The girl reached past him, shoving him with her shoulder to grab one for herself, but not before checking to see if the chef was around. "In that case, I'm going to risk my life and take one just for me." She too took a slobbery boîte of the apple, making sure to suck all the sweet goodness from the bite so as to not drip everywhere.

They both moaned in unison, indulging in the most perfect apples ever.

"Come to the ball." Spencer smiled at her, the bright red skin of an apple stuck between his teeth, but she returned his smile by grimacing at him.

"Ew—God no. You're disgusting." She bit her apple once more.

Spencer rolled his eyes. "Oh, c'mon, Essie," he taunted her with a renowned (and hated) nickname she was now addressed as by the palace staff after Spencer had called her out (more like: told her she was more beautiful than she let on) in front of the staff-welcoming dinner in the palace dining hall. "You've got to do something other than work in this kitchen all day."

"Oh, nooo she does not." Barreling through the doors from the back of the kitchen came Ivy, the most feared member of the palace staff since they fired Big Jerry. Compared to a guy wielding an axe to show off whenever the ladies came around, and having absolutely no idea how to use it, Ivy wasn't much of a fright, but Jerry was long gone. Which was a relief since his very last day he had narrowly missed Katherine's head with a slice of splintery wood. "Esther, here, belongs in the kitchen with me. She's got about three years to go before the pays off her parents' debt to me. So, if anything, not only does she belong in the kitchen, but she belongs to me."

Both Esther and Spencer jumped out of their skin, quickly hiding the apples behind their backs and wiping any juice from their chins. They stood, almost at attention, in front of Ivy, who was built like a truck of what seemed to be muscle and only muscle. According to Spencer, the only thing his father really knew about Ivy was that she had served in some military across the sea, but her accent was completely unidentifiable, so Esther and Spencer had given up on their guesses.

"You two really think you can hide the fact that you've stolen from my apple collection?" For a moment, she looked as if she was about to reprimand them both, drag them both by the ears to Spencer's father, but she calmed down with a smile and grabbed one of the apples in her massive grasp. "They're pretty good, aren't they?" She raised her bushy blonde eyebrows. "Best in the country, I'd say." The two nodded fervently, trying to avoid being punished for, well… disagreeing. They flinched once again when Ivy pointed a thickly manicured finger directly at them. "Now, you: get back to work on my apple pies. And you: rumour has it that your father is looking for you, so knowing him, it's something important."

Spencer scoffed, relaxing and taking another bite of the apple. "And why would you say that?" he asked sarcastically through a mouthful of sweet apple.

Ivy laughed, and shooed him away, but Spencer snuck in a hug with Esther before he left. "See you at the ball?" he asked before slipping out the door and calling back to her from the hall before she could answer. "Great! I'll come to your room at seven!"

Still standing in awe, Esther ran stubby fingers through her bright orange hair. Behind her, Ivy folded her arms over her rippling chest. "Young lady, you're going to get into some deep trouble if you start getting more involved with that Illéa boy. He's the—"

"Prince," Esther interrupted with irritation. "I know, Ivy. You've told me a hundred times that I'd never have a chance with someone like him." She chomped down on the last of the apple, and held in in her hand with a heavy sigh. "Besides, he's going to be the King soon. He's like… twenty-three. He's got to be crowned some time soon, right?"

Ivy shrugged. "Depends on the current king's rule, unfortunately. So, we can't really know for sure. All I know is that that boy is trouble, but in a good way.

"How could being trouble be a good thing?" Esther asked curiously. But Ivy only looked at her, and began walking out the door to the back of the kitchen, where all of the heavier and more voluminous food was being stored and baked and cooked up.

"Get me my pies, Essie. And be careful with that boy or you're gonna walk out of this palace with a burnt ass and a broken heart, child."

—

After a fair amount of time aimlessly wandering the halls, exploring more of the library and greeting most of the staff for substantial conversations, Spencer Illéa finally made it to his father's office. As king, Gregory wanted nothing short of grand. His office was like a second library, filled with the books he had studied in university and the dissertations he had spent hours writing and reading over again and again. At first glance, Gregory wasn't really the most thoughtful king; he was selfish and controlling, and made sure that only the very few people he liked dearly (very, very few) were given the best privileges of his rule. But in the walls of his office was the evidence of his years of research on how to be the perfect leader, on how to control and manipulate an entire country. Having lead the counter attack against Russia, winning back what had once been the United States of America, then the American State of China, and finally calling it a name fit for a king (Illéa), Gregory had every right to sit on the throne he had basically carved himself.

Well, in all reality he had it made for him by some Italian designer, and it (along with the entire palace) had taken years upon years to complete.

The stairs down onto the main floor of the office were beautiful, marble, made a clack every time Spencer stepped with his new shoes. He was still trying to break them in, and so far had (luckily) avoided the acquiring of blisters.

"I called for you over an hour ago," Gregory's heavy voice, low behind a thick beard, came through from somewhere behind a bookshelf. When he appeared, his glasses were set on the tip of his nose, and his brows were furrowed down at the pages of a leather-bound book in his right hand. In his left, he held a pipe, puffing on it every few seconds to take a break from the literary hell (as he liked to call books, even though he had the largest collection in the country).

"Well," Spencer said, leaning on the desk that was in the middle of the black marbled room. "I am here now. What did you want?"

Gregory rounded the little platform that sat before the shelf behind which he had stood. He looked at his son over the rims of his glasses, eyeing him up and down. "Why is your shirt untucked? Are you turning into your brother?"

Spencer flinched, biting back a retort by turning his head away from his father. With a twitch of frustration, anger, sadness, he pushed himself off of the desk with a little bounce, and clasped his hands together behind his back. "No, father, I am not sleeping with any girls in the palace."

Gregory nodded. "Hmph. Good, then." He was silent for a few moments more, slowly making his way to sit at his desk. When he finally reached the seat, he sat back with a heavy grunt, and slammed the book onto the table.

Spencer turned at the clatter of glasses against the glass table. "What do you want, Gregory?" His father eyed him, having told him multiple times not to call him by his first name, that he was a father and a king who was to be given due respect. But Spencer didn't believe that, didn't believe his father deserved his respect, not that of anyone else. He had used his family for political climbing, sold his daughter to another country for the title of King, and ignored his youngest son until it came time for his final words, or, not even! Attending a few minutes of his youngest son's funeral was the closest he got to being a decent father to any of his children, but half the country still praised him, thanked him for the money he brought back into the country, how he had pulled their bones from the ashes and grown them himself.

By the sweat of his brow, King Gregory Illéa brought our country into light. He renamed us, reclaimed us, and relit our flame.

The chant echoed in Spencer's mind, the one the rallies of supporters had sung when they came to his father's speeches all over Illéa, but he evicted it from his mind and raised his brows at the man at the desk. "I'm just going to leave if you don't—"

"I've asked you here," Gregory began slowly, looking down at a pencil that he was slowly tracing over a blank pages with thick fingers, "because I wanted you to know that I have a job for you."

Spencer frowned. Not once had his father asked a thing of him, aside from smiling in magazines shoots or responding to interview questions positively, convincingly about his father's reign. But the king's tone was softer, more concerned but hinting at a question. It was something the man had planned, but hadn't told Spencer. Hadn't told his own son. Once again, Spencer frowned, but this time: deeper. "What have you done?"

Gregory laughed, almost maniacally. He pressed up from his seat, and leaned toward his son. "You assume so little of me, son."

Spencer returned a jovial expression. "Well maybe that's because you're the most inhumane person I've ever met. And that's funny because I've met a lot of crazy assholes in my life, especially being around you."

"Careful," Gregory warned with a menacing smile. "Don't disrespect your king."

Spencer chewed on his lip, and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. "Tell me what it is," he said after a moment of tense silence.

Gregory was glad to comply. "I've arranged for there to be a competition."

Spencer raised his eyebrows. "A competition?" he asked. "For what, exactly?"

"In a way… for the throne," the king teased, and Spencer tensed, but rather than with anticipation, with excitement.

"You're giving it up?" he asked, sounding desperate.

Gregory inhaled sharply, looking down at his son past the end of his sharp nose. "No," he drawled quietly, shaking his head. "But I'm glad you're letting me see where your priorities lie." A pause. "Although, in a way… It is for my place on the throne, but you'll be the one replacing me. We just need to find someone who will replace the seat of your mother."

Spencer's jaw was tight. "You never had a seat made for her, said it was pointless since she was only for the cameras."

"So we'll make your wife a new one."

Spencer blanked. "My… My what?"

"Wife, son. You're going to be king in my stead, one day in the future. You'll need a wife, and I have the perfect way to find you one."

"And you think the best method of finding me a wife is a competition?" Spencer laughed, putting both of his hands on the back of his head in exasperation. "So, what? We're going to bring in a few girls and let them fight it out, have a full-out bloodbath in our garden? Yeah, you're fuckin' crazy."

In the silence of the room, or the eerie quietness of the conversation, the sound of Gregory's hand shattering the glass table was ear-splitting, and Spencer leapt back, almost losing his balance on the smooth marble floor. He cursed again, putting a hand to his heart.

"Jesus! What the—"

"You," Gregory boomed, "will listen to me." Spencer wanted to reply, wanted to yell at him and tell him to screw off, to smarten up and look at what he was really doing, get a new perspective… But he'd tried that before, and it never worked. Never. So Spencer nodded, allowing his father to speak. "I have organized what I am calling a Selection. To bring in the reigns on the Provinces, I am allowing one girl from each to come to the palace and fight for your honour, your heart, and the place next to you on the throne, should you be crowned king at any point in the future."

Spencer knew what his father meant. He had said things like that before, saying that Spencer might die before he could become king. He feared that it was because his father knew of his plans to change the system the current king had created. He feared his father wanted him gone.

"The forms have been sent out, to every virgin girl between sixteen and twenty—"

"Sixteen?" Spencer exclaimed, shocked.

His father nodded. "Yes."

"That's over five years my junior!"

"Your sister married up ten years when she was your age."

Spencer felt the anger bubbling within him, his chest beginning to hurt, a throbbing in his head. "My sister was sold! She did not marry willingly—"

"A pointless conversation, son," Gregory waved him off. "You've seen her multiple times. She comes every month to visit."

"Which is outrageous," Spencer argued. "This is her home."

Gregory looked down at the shattered glass, the splinters all over the floor. It was then he realized the blood dripping down his palm, and he wiped it on his white shirt. "You will participate in this Selection, Spencer. You will find a wife over the course of the next year, at which point if you have not chosen, I will end it myself and choose for you. There will be thirty-five girls to begin, and two or three girls will go home each month, until you come to the final ten. At this point, the remaining ladies will be taught the ways of a queen, of a princess, of a woman by a man's side. From there, you will choose six to go home, and the final ceremony will consist of three girls, one of which you will propose to for all the world to see."

Spencer was silent.

"Son. Do you understand?"

But Spencer just smiled, feeling himself go wild with rage. He excused himself from his father's presence.

He went into his room, and stayed there until the forms began to roll in slowly… Then suddenly they were coming all at once.

Here we go again :) With time in quarantine I hope I can give this story the justice it deserves! I am hoping for a fair amount of suggestions.

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