Velarith welcomed her with banners, bells, and lies.

  The cobblestones were swept clean. The fountains were cleared of soot and pigeons. The salt-cracked marble of the high avenues had been scrubbed until it gleamed like bone in the winter sun. Every window flew a flag — Velmora’s lion in royal gold and black, flanked by silver standards bearing the crest of Foher.

  The people cheered. Or at least, they made the sound of cheering. Neatly arranged along the main procession route, they clapped on command, waved on cue, and offered flowers with hands too still and eyes too curious. The city had rehearsed this.

  And Fran smiled as if she believed it.

  She sat tall in the gilded ducal carriage, dressed in silver-blue with her crest fastened at the throat, her expression polished to near regal stillness. Beside her sat Silja, too stiff to blink. The guards rode in flawless formation behind them, Rhyve at their front. A dozen palace servants and stewards followed behind on foot.

  They wound their way up through the capital’s tiers — through market squares and noble courts, past stately towers and velvet-draped balconies, until finally they reached the highest rise of Velarith. The heart. The blade. The throne.

  The Royal Palace of Velmora loomed above them like a jewel forged from marble, gold, and menace. Sunlight shimmered off its towering glass windows and gilded domes, and the wide stair leading to its inner gates had been scattered with flower petals — red and white.

  At the top of those stairs, King Raemond IV stood waiting.

  He wore black trimmed in steel-threaded grey, his thin frame draped in ceremonial layers designed to mimic strength. His piercing eyes tracked the approaching carriage with a stare sharp enough to peel skin.

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  Beside him stood his third wife, Queen Elashari — silent, too lovely for this court — and at her side, the little Princess Lyshael, bundled in pale green velvet, wide-eyed and ghost-quiet.

  Behind the King stood Princess Nyvara, her expression unreadable, dressed in rich velvet as if she had been summoned at the last minute and hadn’t bothered to hide her resentment. She watched Fran with a smirk more curious than cruel — as if deciding whether to pity her, mock her, or warn her.

  Someone nearby whispered of the other daughter, Aeryne — married to a prince, ruling some far-off coastal realm with grace and discipline. Not here. Not needed. Not questioned.

  The perfect royal daughter.

  And yet, not the one summoned to court.

  Fran stepped out of the carriage.

  She bowed.

  And the city bowed back, though she knew it wasn’t for her — not truly.

  The Banquet

  The palace halls were gold. The chandeliers were silver. The wine flowed, the music sang, and the plates were changed between courses with ritualistic grace.

  Fran sat to the King’s right. The place of honour, naturally.

  She could feel every eye on her: noblemen, ambassadors, bankers, courtiers, and emissaries — all watching with polite smiles, their expressions carefully composed masks of curiosity and calculation.

  “That’s her? The healer from Candlekeep?”

  “Duchess of Foher, now.”

  “She doesn’t look like a ruler.”

  “She doesn’t look like a threat.”

  “And yet… here she is.”

  Fran smiled. She lifted her wine. She asked about trade routes, inquired about river tariffs, complimented the temple choir’s performance.

  She played her part.

  And underneath the silk and gold, beneath the sweet perfume of roses and roasted chestnuts, she felt her stomach turn.

  Every word she spoke was measured.

  Every glance she received was a question she couldn’t answer:

  How long will she last?

  What does she know?

  What does she want?

  How dangerous is she?

  By the time the sixth course was cleared, she had a headache splitting behind her eyes and could feel the edges of her patience wearing thin.

  And the King had yet to speak to her privately.