Obren, a prince of Canna, had drawn straws many times in the past, but never had the stakes been so high. This time it was not about who would go first or last either in childhood games of years gone by, or in sexual liaisons from more recent years. It was not about who would help pitch the army tents versus dig the holes for the latrine. Or fill them in, later, when breaking camp.

This time, the rest of his life was at stake. Not life or death, itself, but the direction his life would follow, and its potential to bring him happiness.

Obren’s stomach twisted into a knot as his father, King Rogan of Canna, offered his closed fist. Obren drew in a deep breath, understanding, to the marrow of his bones, that any plea to avoid this choice was pointless. A straw must be drawn, and as the older of the two brothers, he would draw first.

Not that the order of drawing mattered. Whether or not he drew the short straw would be down to luck. The luck of the draw would decide his life’s path. His hand twitched as he checked a nervous impulse to smooth down his already neatly styled blond hair.

Treaties had been signed, and a complete series of intermarriages between the realms would solidify their fledgling peace. The three realms had agreed on this course of action.

Obren closed his eyes, shut out the sounds of his father’s heavy breathing, and focused on preventing the quiver building in his gut from reaching his hand as he lifted it. He paused and opened his eyes. Was there any possible stratagem he could employ to boost his chances?

“Just pick one,” Lale hissed. “Let’s get this over with.” Lale, being Obren’s younger brother, was as invested in the outcome as was Obren.

The royal families of the three realms had four children apiece, each of marriageable age. Or rather, each had four surviving unmarried children. Two princes—including Obren’s beloved eldest brother, Pejo, the former crown prince of Canna—had perished in the war. Likewise, the husbands of two of the princesses.

But for those remaining, each realm would make two pairs of alliances through marriage with each of the other two realms.

It was a perfect diplomatic solution.

Almost.

While the realms of Canna and Pretin each had two sons and two daughters, the realm of Butari complicated matters. They had three sons and one daughter.

After much discussion at the conclave that had been held the previous day after the last of the entourages from Butari and Pretin had arrived in Canna—the most centrally located of the three realms—the three monarchs and their advisors had agreed that one of the Butari sons would marry a son from one of the other two realms.

Neither of the monarchs from those two realms had wanted to volunteer one of their sons to a marriage that was guaranteed not to continue their bloodline, so they had rolled dice to decide the fate of their children.

As luck—bad luck in Obren’s not-so-humble opinion—would have it. King Rogan had lost the roll, and now either Obren or his brother, Lale, must marry one of the princes of Butari.

Although the pairings were yet to be decided for the participants of the upcoming mass wedding ceremony, King Rogan was permitted to choose which of his two sons would marry traditionally, and which would set a new precedent in the three realms.

Obren swallowed, squared his shoulders, and snatched one of the two straws sticking up from of Father’s fist. He stepped back and stared at the stick, but it gave him no information.

No useful information, anyway. Length could be both absolute and relative. He could see that the absolute length of his straw was about six knuckles long. But it was the length relative to the straw remaining in Father’s hand that would give the answer.

Lale strode swiftly forward and grabbed the remaining straw. The brothers stood staring at one another for ten solid beats before slowly raising their hands to compare straws.

Obren stared blankly at the two straws, but it was the slow grin spreading across Lale’s face that came into focus first. Lale held the longer of the two straws.

Heat suffused Obren’s face as he snapped his straw in half and let the two pieces drop to the floor.

“Enough of that.” The king used his regal tone, usually reserved for court. “You will do your duty, and you will do it without displays that should have been left behind when you graduated out of the nursery.”

Obren clenched his jaw. He shouldn’t say anything more, but his mouth ran on unheeded. “I’m older. It wouldn’t have been out of order for you to have decided based upon our ages.”

“Your sisters are older still. You’re not even the spare, let alone the heir. You don’t matter.”

Lale snorted, and Obren shot a glare in his direction. But Lale was looking at their father with an unwise look of disgust. The snort hadn’t been directed at Obren; it had been in response to Father’s unkind remark about both of their worth.

Obren softened his expression, and when Lale returned his gaze to Obren, Lale swallowed, and said, “Obren’s right. Neither of us wants this, of course, but it should be me.”