Florian's heart pounded so violently he thought the whole hall must hear it. The herald's words rolled through the air, but to him they were warped and distant, like sound caught beneath water.
The Thornfield family.
His so-called family.
No—the original Florian's family.
The towering double doors groaned open, and the entrance of Floramatria's royals crashed into the ballroom like a tidal wave.
They did not glide in draped in silks, nor parade themselves in jewels as the other kingdoms had. No—what entered was a wall of steel and presence.
Women—scores of them—marched forward in gleaming silver armor, accented with swaths of deep green and regal purple.
Their boots struck the marble in unison, the rhythm sharp, relentless, like the drumbeat of an army ready for war. The very air seemed to stiffen around them, their discipline pressing down on the chamber like invisible weight.
It was not wealth they carried. It was dignity. Power.
