The Midland Throne by K.M. Gallagher is an LGBTQ+ young adult fantasy novel releasing November 20th, 2024.
It was the night of Princess Estelle’s sixteenth birthday and, coincidentally, the beginning of the end of her life.
Soon, her presence would be required at the party downstairs. Sixteen was a big year for the sole heir to one of the wealthiest kingdoms in the world, and the event was appropriately huge; the dull roar of laughter and conversation drifted through the open window from where the crowds spilled out onto the lawn. If Estelle were to rise and cross the room halfway, she would see the very edge of the sea of people, bathed in the last of the evening’s sunlight. The thought made her cringe.
Just until midnight, she told herself. She was not looking at anything in particular, instead fixated upon the mirror across from her, tracing the contours of the frame with her gaze. This whole thing wouldn’t last longer than a few months—then she would be married, and hopefully her spouse could take over the responsibilities of running the kingdom and leave her to travel from place to place, handling foreign relations. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to imagine the possibility for a moment; the wind twisting through her hair, the sunlight as it shattered upon the ocean waves, the shrieking of seabirds. Last and perhaps most important of all, the approaching coastline opposite the boat, different every time.
Even sinking into fantasy as she was, she still wanted nothing more than to shrug off the castle staff and climb into bed, to lie beneath the soft pink quilt and close her eyes against the evening’s obligations.
Perhaps her lady’s maid, Miss Ricard, sensed her dread, because she placed a small, pale hand on Estelle’s shoulder. “You look lovely,” she whispered.
And it was true. Her cheeks glowed with golden undertones in the candlelight, black hair shining in perfect tandem with the thick jewelry resting at her throat, and the folds of her white dress complemented her flawless brown skin. Careful makeup accentuated the fullness of her lips, the brightness of her eyes. But, sincere as the compliment may have been, it fell flat. Of course Estelle looked lovely—she always did. Lovely was her birthright and destiny; it had followed her since she was a child, and, one day, she would take it with her to the grave.
There was nothing Carter Braganza loved more than a good party, and the Crown Princess certainly knew how to throw one. The three or four glasses of champagne he’d indulged in at the start of the night were swirling around in his system, and he’d resolved to hold off on further gratification until after the king’s formal appearance, taking the opportunity instead to size up the other guests.
When so many clashing hairstyles and fabrics and strands of jewelry entered the same space, it created a bizarre sense of cohesion, where everything matched because nothing did, and here, Carter was in his element. He would adjust his bracelets, sidle up alongside a cluster of three or four socialites from the mainland, and wait. Once the opportunity presented itself, he would join the conversation, sometimes introducing himself, sometimes acting like he had been there all along, often complimenting some accessory or makeup choice.
Whatever the case, he knew how to get people talking, and the central topic was an alleged announcement King Clément would be making at the end of the night. Carter had an idea or two, but chose to stick around and see for himself. As Heir to his own kingdom’s throne, it wasn’t hard to guess the reason behind the personal invitation he’d received, and he did love a bit of excitement.
An alliance, maybe? A chance to meet his daughter? It probably had to do with the Princess in some regard—this was her birthday, after all, and much of the buzz stemmed from her status as Clément’s sole surviving relative.
As he pressed his fingers over his mouth, considering the possibilities, Estelle emerged, stepping out onto the balcony overlooking the main ballroom, and she was extraordinary. Even from a distance, her dark eyes shone with an otherworldly sort of beauty, her dress cream-colored and ornate with lace ruffles down the bodice and skirts. Her lips were pursed in a practiced smile, and, as she approached the banister, she angled her body just so, allowing the light from the chandeliers to catch and refract on her layers of jewelry.
Following his daughter was King Clément. The man was a pale shadow of the Princess; the two possessed many of the same features, and a similarity in disposition, but he appeared quite thin next to her, his shirt of dark silk rumpled. His crown, a huge extravagant thing of twisting gold and dripping gemstones, seemed to glow, as if stealing the life force from its wearer.
“Pardon,” someone said, breaking Carter’s state of reverie and drawing his attention to the face of a striking young man to his left. The countenance that greeted him was familiar in a way he could not place, all angular features and thick black hair and unblinking brown eyes. It took Carter a moment to realize he was in the way of the banquet table, and he stood aside, mumbling an apology.
“Thank you,” said the boy. His voice was a little too quiet to suit the atmosphere, certainly too soft to be heard over the thunderous waves of applause and music that accompanied the arrival of the King and Crown Princess of the Midlands, but it was pleasant enough. Carter found himself committing the boy’s features to memory. He considered attempting to initiate further conversation, but, when he turned to get a better look, the other person was gone. Left alone again, he gravitated to the nearest circle of people, making a few quick remarks but otherwise keeping to himself, until—
“Goodness,” came a voice across from him. “It’s you.”
Carter snapped his gaze upwards and found it locked with that of a woman within this new group of people, with close-cropped black hair and a gown of brilliant chartreuse.
“Ah,” he said, smiling. Jiona Faraji; at last, someone he recognized, though it had been some time since the two had last spoke and they’d never been much more than acquaintances besides. “Hello.”
Jiona stepped forward, dismissing her company with a flick of the wrist. “Hello? That’s it?”
“Pleased to formally make your acquaintance,” he said, bowing, “I’m—”
Jiona caught his shoulder. When he stood again, her grin was wide. “I know who you are,” she said. “You came to my own birthday not two years ago.”
“Yes, well.” He coughed. “I thought a reintroduction might be in order, given…”
She regarded him, swirling her drink before extending a jeweled hand. “It would seem so.”
“Carter,” he said, kissing it.
“A pleasure,” she said. Then, indicating herself, “Jiona, still.”
“The pleasure is mine,” Carter said, smiling, and he allowed her to loop her arm around his. Together, they wound through the crowd and stopped in front of the balcony, where Estelle now sat behind her father. Belatedly, he realized the King had been speaking the entire time, and was already halfway through the announcement.
“Oh,” Jiona said. “Oops. Do you—”
“No, but hold on.” Casting his gaze about the gold-painted space, Carter settled on a woman a few paces away who looked to be paying the appropriate amount of attention and managed to weave his way between throngs of party-goers to reach her side.
“I’m terribly sorry,” he said, making a show of twisting his rings once he knew he had her eye. “Did you catch the beginning of that? My focus was elsewhere.”
His initial impression had been that the stranger was a few decades his senior, by the cut of her clothes and the silver tone of her hair, but he now saw that it was a wig, and that she may have been younger than him. Still, her expression was rather severe for a teenager, and her tone emanated disapproval when she at last spoke. “The King has invited a handful of suitors to stay at the palace over the coming months. Everything was arranged in advance. Who are you?”
“Carter,” he said. “Braganza.”
The girl hummed and stepped away. “Catherine. And he just called your name.”
Julian Hanover should have jumped off his father’s boat when he had the chance. Then, at least, he would have only the icy, treacherous waters to contend with instead of dull conversation with his peers at dinner. He might have even made it back to shore, if he’d swam fast enough. But he hadn’t, and now he was sitting at a long table, playing with his food and surveying his competition. To say he was underwhelmed would be generous. Three or four of the suitors stood out to him as strong contenders, while the rest ranged from unremarkable to outright disappointing.
He busied himself between bites of pork and spinach by taking each individual’s mannerisms under careful consideration and pretending not to feel his father’s eyes drilling into his back from two tables over. Thanks to the man’s lack of subtlety, Julian had known about the tournament in advance, or, at least, a version of it. Whatever the case, it had been made clear that he was to marry the young Princess or suffer the consequences—though the exact meaning of this was yet unclear. He supposed it depended on the grace with which he handled the tournament, and how long he lasted.
His bride-to-be (if Nicholas had his way) was seated at the head of the table. She was engaged in conversation with a rather attractive boy that had brown skin and brown curls and light eyes that sparkled in tandem with the excessive amounts of gold that lined his clothes and accessories. Estelle seemed taken with him—or intrigued, at least. Julian resented the boy immediately. It would be a long four weeks of Nicholas Hanover breathing down his neck, demanding to know why he couldn’t measure up to this other fellow, and how much he knew about him, and what he planned to do to address this clear threat to his vital marriage with a girl whose name he thought was ‘Giselle’ until a few hours ago.
The boy—whose name, he learned, was Carter—did not impress Julian overly much. He was beautiful, yes, and had an undeniable charisma to him, having made friends with half the room within the first couple of minutes, but neither of these factors indicated his level of competence. Then again, he wasn’t thrilled with the Crown Princess, either. She had a certain way about her, a widening of the eyes and a parting of the lips, that was reminiscent of a dead fish. A lovely dead fish, in a nice dress and cute makeup, but still a fish, and still dead.
Well past midnight, Estelle dismissed her suitors and watched them exit one by one, many accompanied by their parents or guardians, with whom they would soon part to retire to individual apartments. They were free, she had told them, until ten o’clock the next morning, when the first trial would be announced. Sixteen suitors, one to honor each year of her life. Two weeks per trial. It may have been excessive, but, if she was going to spend the rest of her life with one of these strangers, she thought she might at least stave it off for as long as possible.
Estelle did not think her taste in suitors was unreasonable, so she had hoped this competition would be straightforward. Now, though, she was unsure. It was difficult to tell who was genuine in their interest, who was truthful in their discussions with her—who, even, would make a good parent, spouse, and ruler. There were just too many of them.
Her eye had caught first on William Sauer, a young man with tightly curled hair, dark brown skin, and a shy smile. He was pretty, she thought, and polite-looking, currently chatting with some of the other suitors as he held the door open for them. The shades of pale gold and forest green he’d donned that evening suited him nicely, complementing his warmer undertones. She had met him once or twice before. They’d gotten along, and he was a nice boy; perhaps too nice to run an empire, though she supposed that remained to be seen.
She had spent some of the meal speaking with Carter Braganza, her neighbor to the north. Most of the suitors were too shy to talk to her for the time being, but the Highland Prince possessed no such fear. Indeed, he had greeted her as one would an old friend. The topic of their conversation had been insubstantial, but he’d managed to bring it up as though they had been interrupted at some point before and were merely picking up where they’d left off. Once they’d finished, he’d turned and repeated the process with a lady to his right, which worked to put the girl at ease.
Julian, the eldest Hanover boy, did not appear to have much of a personality. He reacted appropriately when addressed—shook hands, nodded, pulled his lips back in something that could pass as a smile, but, as soon as attention turned the other way, he retreated into himself, expression growing blank, mouth tightening into a straight, thin line. To Estelle, he resembled a porcelain doll, pale and inanimate.
Estelle watched him leave from her spot at the head of the table, playing idly with the folds of her dress. He was handsome, she supposed, and known for his intelligence. They would have fine children together, if she chose him. The thought unsettled her. Exiting alongside him was his father, the Lowland King, a man opposite his son in every conceivable way, with light eyes and an easy smile. Embroidered roses bloomed along his cuffs and collar, spiraling in on themselves, the thorns the same gunmetal gray as the thick rings lining his fingers. This, paired with his round, almost boyish face, gave the effect of a garden in human form—sparkling flowers, a dewdrop smile, a countenance overflowing with life. But something about his eyes, the light and how it didn’t catch within them, made Estelle’s stomach twist in a way she did not like.
