Ah, the Emperor. The glittering jewel of Nevareth, whose icy poise had, until this very evening, been as unyielding as the frost he was born beneath. But tonight… oh, tonight, even frost learned to melt.
It began innocently enough... if such things can ever be called innocent in the court of Solmire. A constellation of women circled him like moths around a flame.
Lady Cordelia Ashvane, newly recovered from her gown catastrophe, fluttered her lashes so violently one feared she might take flight. Others drifted closer with artful "accidents"... a brush of a sleeve here, a feigned stumble there, goblets refilled with trembling hands and eager smiles.
Each question was sweetened honey: "Does the Emperor dance?" "Is it true Nevareth's snow never melts?" "Your Majesty, do tell us... does the crown weigh much?"
