Raven did not wait for the uproar to die down.
"Strip her of nothing," he commanded coldly, "for she has never been what you thought."
He turned sharply to the priests of the parish and the royal attendants stationed at the sides of the hall.
"Bring the regalia of Ross."
The room gasped as one.
That name again.
Not whispered this time—invoked.
A sealed chest was carried forward, its sigil unmistakable: the broken sun crowned by waves and flame. Ancient. Forbidden.
So the rumors were true.
The king had been prepared.
Vanella stood frozen as the servants approached her—not with rough hands, not with indifference, but with reverence. They carefully removed the muted garments of servitude she had worn for so long.
Every layer felt like a lifetime falling away.
Then came the robe.
Red as spilled blood.
Gold as divine fire.
The fabric shimmered as it was draped over her shoulders, heavy with history, stitched with the forgotten glory of Ross. When the clasp was fastened at her throat, the air itself seemed to tighten.
A priest stepped forward, voice trembling but resolute.
"By ancient rite," he proclaimed, "by blood remembered and blood denied—Vanella of Ross is restored."
The hall held its breath.
"She is Princess of Ross."
The words landed like a war horn.
Vanella lifted her head.
The court no longer saw a servant.
They saw royalty.
"And," the priest continued, glancing briefly at Raven before bowing deeply, "by royal decree and binding oath—she is betrothed to Raven, King of Acosta."
Shock rippled violently through the nobles.
This was no longer politics.
This was war.
Declaring her princess meant challenging the current ruler who sat on Ross's stolen throne. Betrothing her to Acosta meant an alliance forged in blood and prophecy.
Some faces drained of color.
Others hardened with hatred.
Behind carefully schooled expressions, plans collapsed. Years of manipulation unraveled in moments. They had underestimated the king. Worse—they had underestimated her.
Raven stepped forward and placed his hand over Vanella's clasped fingers.
A silent vow.
Let them plot.
Let them flee.
Let them regroup.
War was coming.
And this time, Ross would not fall quietly.