The game was a subtle, delicate thing, a web of silk and shadow that Armyra had been weaving for twenty-five years. Every smile was a strategy. Every word was a move. Every silence was a trap.
Tonight, she was hosting a supper. A small, intimate gathering of the most powerful women in the kingdom, minus the old spider herself. Ysireth was, as always, a ghost, cloistered away with the dying king, her power felt but never seen.
Armyra sat at the head of the small, polished weirwood table in her private solar, a picture of serene, regal grace. The room was her sanctuary, a place of cold, elegant austerity that stood in stark contrast to the gaudy, emotional mess of the rest of the palace. The air smelled of beeswax and winter roses.
