The palace of Nyxeria was a storm of movement. Everywhere Aurelia turned, someone was running, bowing, or balancing something breakable. The marble halls echoed with the clatter of silver trays, the snapping of fabric, and the occasional shriek of a maid who'd just been told she ironed the wrong royal crest.
It was only two days until the great diplomatic banquet — the first of many to come — and the palace had transformed into a theater of chaos.
For everyone, that is, except Aurelia, who was very determined not to participate.
She sat cross-legged on her bed, wearing a loose robe, staring suspiciously at the row of dresses being paraded before her by the court seamstress — a terrifying woman named Madame Velra, whose scissors looked sharp enough to stab a ghost.
Lyra stood nearby, holding a measuring tape like it might save her life.
