The garden terrace was high-walled and formally tiered, carved from old imperial stone and gilded with whispering vines that bloomed in unnatural rhythm to the ambient mana. It wasn't a place for commoners, or even lesser nobles—it was for imperial-blooded eyes only.
And yet even here, the attention narrowed when she arrived.
Priscilla Lysandra.
The overlooked princess. The unspoken name behind court whispers. The daughter of the Empire's mistake.
But today?
She did not enter quietly.
Dressed in subdued grays, her cloak swept behind her like a shadow trimmed in silver. Her guards did not follow. Her steps were unhurried. Measured.
Deliberate.
Heads turned.
Some bowed. Some hesitated. None greeted.
She paid them no mind.
Her gaze passed them, cut through them, until she reached the edge of the uppermost platform, where a private viewing altar had been installed—bare, unadorned, and oddly unclaimed.
A perfect spot.
She sat.
