Princess Elara's gaze sharpened like the edge of a tempered blade as she fixed her eyes upon the woman before her—Seraphine Evandale, her rival, her shadow, the serpent she swore one day to slay. She knew every whispered tale about her, every rumor that clung to her name like smoke upon silk. Yet as she watched, a ripple of unease stirred within her breast. Something about Seraphine was different.
She did not glide as she once did, like a swan upon still waters. Instead, she shuffled stiffly, as though invisible chains bound her limbs. Her head was held high, yes, but her steps betrayed a strange faltering rhythm, her posture the strained rigidity of one who wrestled with unseen agony. Even her voice, soft as perfumed parchment, cracked oddly when she offered greetings.
