The corridors of the Imperial Palace stretched like veins of polished gold, humming with quiet power. Every torch sconce flickered with arcane fire, and the marble beneath Jolthar's boots shimmered faintly—as if the stone itself remembered the footsteps of conquerors and kings.
Princess Yssandra walked ahead with effortless grace, her long crimson cape rippling behind her like a banner of war. Every few steps, she glanced sideways at Jolthar, studying him with a curiosity that felt half scholarly, half predatory.
"You carry yourself strangely for a provincial lord," she said at last, her voice calm but edged with amusement.
Jolthar snorted softly. "What does that mean?"
"It means most lords tremble here. Knees weak, backs bent, eyes glued to the floor. But you… walk like a man who fears nothing. Like someone who would challenge my father to his face."
"Would he like that?" Jolthar asked dryly.
"Oh, absolutely not," she said with a bright smile. "But I might."
