POV: First Lady Illara Voss
Scene: Later that night — post-welcome banquet
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The palace had never looked this alive.
Every chandelier sparkled like the stars were bribed to come down. The floor had been polished twice. Imported candles from Sernaya burned with silent class. Guards in ceremonial uniform lined the halls — stiff, loyal, terrified.
And yet… the air felt thick.
Like history was being written in every breath.
Illara Voss stood at the balcony overlooking the east wing garden. Below, she could see BAM soldiers — Blackwood Armed Militia — stationed beside Darnova's elite guards. Laughing. Sharing cigars. As if they'd known each other for years.
She couldn't lie to herself.
This wasn't an alliance.
This was a shift of gravity.
A peaceful occupation disguised in ribbons and speeches.
She took a slow sip of crimson wine. Expensive, aged, but it burned different tonight.
Behind her, the glass doors slid open gently. Amara's reflection appeared in the window beside hers — black suit still flawless, eyes calm but sharp.
"Beautiful view," Amara said.
"It was always my favorite part of the palace," Illara replied, voice quiet. "The one place where nothing feels... manufactured."
Amara nodded. "And yet, here we are—manufacturing peace."
There was no sarcasm. Just a knife wrapped in velvet.
Illara turned, facing her. "You do know most of them fear you, right?"
"I prefer fear over false love."
"…Do you ever miss being normal?"
Amara actually smiled. A real one this time. "There's nothing normal about destiny, Illara."
Silence.
Below, fireworks lit the sky — red and gold — forming the shape of a Blackwood crest merging with Darnova's flag. The people cheered. Media anchors praised the "New Dawn of Unity."
Illara's throat tightened.
"You're going to run this country without ever needing to win an election," she said.
"I don't run countries," Amara whispered. "I reshape them."
Illara looked at her carefully. Not as a rival. Not as a First Lady. But as a woman.
Strong. Cold. Purposeful.
And for a flicker of a moment… she admired her.
But admiration was dangerous now.
Because in this new world — survival meant loyalty.
"Then teach me," Illara finally said, her voice barely a whisper. "Teach me how to stand next to a storm… and not be swept away."
Amara turned to her fully, eyes unreadable.
"You already are."
Then she walked away.
Leaving Illara at the balcony.
Holding her wine.
Staring at a garden that no longer belonged to her country.
Only to history.
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