Rumors in Lysoria rarely began loudly.
They moved quietly at first—like smoke slipping beneath a door.
By the second morning after Raphael Mirecourt's marriage ceremony, the whispers had already spread through half the capital.
The first place they gathered was where whispers always gathered: the salons.
Women in silk gowns leaned close over tea tables. Gentlemen in embroidered coats spoke in careful tones. Servants pretended not to listen as the names of princesses drifted through the air like stray notes in a melody.
"Two consorts already."
"Before she has even secured the crown."
"And another priest constantly at her side."
A woman raised a brow delicately.
"Ambitious."
Another voice murmured:
"Indulgent."
A young nobleman laughed softly.
"Or efficient."
The group chuckled, though uneasily.
The Golden Diadem of Lysoria allowed royal women multiple consorts. That much was law. That much was tradition.
But tradition was not the same as comfort.
