POV: First Lady Illara Voss
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She had rehearsed every word.
Every smile.
Every tilt of the head, even the inflection of her voice for the cameras.
But when Illara Voss stood at the grand doors of the palace, staring at the Blackwood convoy gliding up the gold-trimmed road… her stomach twisted.
This wasn't politics.
This was power incarnate.
The kind that made every mistake a memory carved in stone.
She had met queens before.
Royal blood from the Merigan Coast.
Tech heiresses from Isvara.
Even that iron-hearted Duchess from Syvanna.
But Amara Blackwood?
She was different.
There was no need for ornaments or heavy gowns. She walked in a matte-black suit, her hair pinned in a high, effortless bun. No smile. No nerves. Just confidence that bent the space around her.
And behind her—walking like time moved for him—was Chris Blackwood.
Eyes unreadable. Movements precise. Hands gloved in crimson.
When they finally stepped into the palace entrance, the gold-trimmed doors closed behind them like the sealing of fate.
"Your Excellency," Illara began, giving Amara a respectful curtsy.
But before she could say more, Amara stepped forward, eyes locking with hers.
"You're more poised than the last three presidents' wives," she said calmly.
Illara blinked. Was it… a compliment?
"Thank you, Lady Blackwood."
"Queen Blackwood," Amara corrected, softly. Not threatening—just factual.
Illara flushed. "Of course. My apologies."
Chris said nothing. But his gaze scanned the room like he already knew the number of breaths each person had taken since sunrise.
The cameras snapped. The broadcast streamed across the entire Blackwood Union.
This moment was history.
And Illara Voss knew it.
This wasn't just a diplomatic welcome.
This was a kingdom arriving to take root.
And from the look in Amara's eyes, Darnova was already theirs.
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