The fire had long since died down to embers, but she hadn’t noticed.

  Frances Serenna Elarion, Duchess of Foher — at least on paper — sat curled in the corner of her study’s largest armchair, a book splayed uselessly across her lap. She hadn't turned the page in twenty minutes.

  The pain behind her eyes throbbed in sync with the pulse at her temple. Her stomach knotted with cramps that no tea nor spell had managed to soothe, and her limbs felt stuffed with wool. She hadn’t slept. Again. The council session that morning had been a polite bloodbath. Again. And a stack of letters — not even opened yet — spilled from her desk, each one most certainly containing yet another noble suggestion for her future husband.

  Apparently, her womb had become a national concern.

  She sighed and pressed the knuckles of one hand into her temple, then winced.

  At her feet, Nymph yawned dramatically and stretched her paws into the rug. Rudy, curled on the windowsill, cracked one eye open in a gesture of mild disapproval before settling back down to ignore the world.

  Then came the knock.

  Three gentle taps — crisp, practiced, but not overly formal.

  Fran exhaled. “Come in.”

  The door creaked open. Silja, her ever-reliable shadow, stood in the doorway, already halfway into a curtsy.

  “There’s a letter, Your Grace,” she said.

  Fran gave a weary wave toward the desk. “Add it to the pile.”

  Silja hesitated. “It’s from Velarith. The royal seal.”

  That got her attention.

  She straightened, the book sliding to the floor with a dull thump. “Velarith?”

  Silja crossed the room and handed over the envelope on a silver tray — polished, formal, too ornate for the day they were both having. Fran took it and turned it in her fingers. The wax seal gleamed crimson in the gray light, stamped with the unmistakable crest of the royal palace.

  Fran didn’t open it immediately.

  Instead, she studied the seal, the shape of the handwriting. Her mouth felt dry.

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  A summons. It could only be a summons. Or worse.

  Behind her, the wind rattled the windowpanes.

  She set the letter in her lap, unopened. “Do they think I’ll swoon at the thought of royal parchment?”

  Silja tilted her head. “It would give you an excuse to skip council.”

  Fran nearly smiled. “Tempting.”

  Then she broke the seal.

  Her eyes moved across the page. Once. Twice. She folded it again with shaking fingers and dropped it on the desk like it burned.

  “So,” she said softly, “His Majesty wishes to see me.”

  Silja said nothing.

  Outside, snow began to fall — silent, steady, indifferent.

  By dinnertime, the letter had ceased to be a secret.

  It spread faster than rats through grain, as all important things did in the palace. The steward had seen it. Silja had not exactly said anything, but she had not exactly not said anything either. The guards had caught the look on Fran’s face. The cook’s niece had seen Silja’s expression. The footman told the stable hand who told the court seamstress who told her sister who worked at the docks.

  By morning, everyone in Vartis knew: the King had summoned the Duchess.

  The rumors came next — barbed, absurd, and relentless.

  “She’s being removed. Replaced by someone more suitable. Mark my words.”

  “You can’t remove her. She’s blood. Alric’s blood.”

  “The King doesn’t care. He wants a man on that seat.”

  “A groom. That’s what this is. Some foreign prince with a dozen daughters already.”

  “Didn’t Princess Nyvara refuse a marriage to the Emir of Naqir last spring?”

  “Ah! He’s handsome. If nothing else, she’ll enjoy the view.”

  “Or she’ll die screaming in a locked tower. Depends on the mood in Velarith.”

  Fran didn’t respond to any of it.

  She buried herself in preparation.

  Letters were dispatched. Horses chosen. Clothes pressed. The steward insisted on ceremonial banners. Rhyve insisted on extra guards. Silja insisted on bringing extra wool, and tea, and books, and every possible charm against freezing to death halfway across the Duchy. The Duchess said very little.

  She didn't ask the King’s intent. She didn’t speculate.

  She only asked that the royal reply be written in her own hand.

  “The Duchess of Foher acknowledges His Majesty’s invitation. She will arrive within the fortnight.”

  They departed at dawn, three days later.

  The sky was gray with heavy clouds, and snow slicked the roads down to the southern valleys. Behind them, the banners of Foher streamed in the wind, their silver threads catching what little light the morning offered.

  Fran rode in the central carriage, her cats hating every second of it. Rhyve led the escort, cloaked and vigilant. Silja rode just behind, her hands white-knuckled on the reins.

  They passed river towns and sleepy inns, climbed narrow ridges and froze through mountain crossings. The people who saw them bowed low — some with reverence, some with curiosity, and more than a few with naked pity.

  The journey took six days.

  Six long, aching days of cold air and colder dread.

  But finally, Velarith appeared — carved into the coast like a crown, gold and marble glinting through the mist, far too grand and too dangerous to be real.

  Fran, stiff with exhaustion, cracked open the frost-rimmed window.

  The wind carried the scent of salt and incense, of fires burning behind glass, of something ancient pulsing beneath stone.

  The city gates yawned before them, tall as judgment, sharp as a blade.

  She did not blink.

  “Well,” she murmured, to no one in particular, “Let’s see if the serpent still remembers how to bite.”