A/N: All characters belong to Miss Kiera ;)
After Carolina was spoken for, there'd only be one province left to cover. King Clarkson stared intently at the vats of envelopes set up in one of the palace's larger conference rooms. Several of these rooms had been overtaken to store the applications of all the girls eligible for the Selection.
Clarkson had known it would be a tedious task to choose someone good enough from each province, but now that he was thirty-three in and almost, almost done, his impatience for the responsibility to be completed was definitely kicking in.
He had tried to make things easier for himself by eliminating much of the pool right away. Sixes, Sevens and Eights were immediately discarded as though they'd never even sent in applications, as were most Fives. Why go through the process at all? The king thought. Those girls never had a chance. Surely they knew that.
Clarkson took another deep breath as he studied a few of Carolina's applicants. Over all the years he'd been meticulously planning for his son's Selection, it seemed it had slipped his mind to groom anyone from Carolina.
So now, he had to do it the traditional way. There was something just plain wrong with each one of them. Her nose was misshapen. She had a pressing family history of infertility. No, no, no—
The king let out a groan as one of his advisors, whose name he couldn't bother to call to mind at the moment, entered the room. "Pardon my intrude, Your Majesty. Have you chosen one for Carolina yet?"
"What do you think?" Clarkson responded brashly. Sensing the king's frustration, the advisor quickly recalibrated, pulling out the records he'd brought in to discuss.
"Very well. Seeing as the decision's yet to be made, Your Majesty, it would benefit you to see something."
Irritated, Clarkson glanced absently over at the pages in the advisor's hands. Wasn't it obvious he was very busy? "Hmm, and how does it pertain to the Selection?"
The advisor adjusted the papers. "These statistics and news reports are just from the last month, Your Majesty. The lower castes are becoming ever more restless. They feel they're not being listened to, that their needs are not being treated as importantly as those of the upper castes, that sort of thing."
King Clarkson exhaled. "And they'd be correct. There are too many more immediate concerns to take care of to worry about whether or not a few families have power for the winter. I'm perfectly aware of this. Your point?" He enunciated the last word sharply, conveying his dwindling interest in the conversation indisputably.
"Myself and the other advisors have been discussing, Your Majesty. We think it could be helpful in preventing riots in the secondaries, at least for the time being, if…the lower castes were given more representation in the Selection."
The king was beginning to feel irate. "I've chosen two Fives already, haven't I? Is that not enough?" He felt he was being pretty generous as it was.
"You have, Your Majesty. However that's only five percent of the entire ensemble. Just one more from the lower castes is likely to hold them over out there."
King Clarkson let out a long, heaving sigh, weighing his options. "Very well. One more. But mark my words: my son will not wed some subservient exploitress, here only due to a miracle of my kindness, to ruin herself for a crown she wouldn't deserve in a hundred of her worthless lifetimes. Are we clear?"
The advisor nodded vigorously. "Absolutely, Your Majesty. Don't think of her as a legitimate contender; she's merely a peacekeeping tool for the inferior classes, same as the other two. This is bound to provide that sense of validation the lower castes are looking for."
"It had better. The way I see it there's two too many lowers in this competition already." Shaking his head, the king went over to the small stack of fifth-caste submissions from Carolina that were supposed to be the last batch headed to the incinerator on one of the palace's sub-levels. Wanting nothing more than to get the obligation over with, he took the first one off the top and tore it open, tearing the application itself in the process. "All right, let's see who we've got here."
The girl in the photo staring back at him had wild red hair and a bright smile. Much to Clarkson's chagrin, she was rather attractive for a Five, not that he'd ever admit this out loud. The name on the application read AMERICA SINGER. Unusual name. The country that couldn't hold onto this land, and she's walking around called after it. The king shook his head at the tack. She was seventeen years old, with an expertise in several music-related talents, could speak three languages—for a Five, he couldn't help but wonder if that was a lie—but he stopped reading about halfway through, having already seen enough. She had nothing to offer that would be of value to him. He didn't care how well-rounded she was.
Still, she would have to do. He didn't feel like sifting through the entire stack for the "perfect" Five. The caste wasn't worth such an effort. Besides, did such a girl really exist? Why would Maxon consider a Five when there were scores of legitimately eligible young ladies coming to the palace?
King Clarkson handed the slightly ripped application to his advisor. "Okay, take this one. Tell them this is the Selected from Carolina."
"Right away, Your Majesty." And he left without another word.
The king closed his eyes, massaging his temples, the long day he'd had thus far catching up with him as it often did. There was just one more province left to choose a competitor for, but he saw no harm in taking a break before getting on with it.
He thought again about the lower-caste token he'd just green-lit into the Selection. The whole thing was entirely out of her league; poor girl wouldn't last a minute once she realized who she was up against. Still, she would get to taste palace life, for all but a moment; something the commoners like her dreamed of.
King Clarkson shook his head once again. Well then, America Singer, he thought. I suppose this is your lucky day.
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