The storm had finally begun to ease, though the rain still drummed gently against the earth. The villagers' chants gave way to breathless whispers, rippling like fire across dry grass.
"She moved like the rain itself…"
"Did you see her? Not a single woman has ever danced like that."
"The king is smitten. He has to be."
Laughter, awe, disbelief—all tangled together as the crowd stared at Isabella, still standing tall in the circle. Her white dress clung to her like second skin, her golden hair plastered to her face and shoulders. Mud streaked her knees, her arms, but somehow she looked more divine for it, as though the Moon Mother herself had sculpted her from stormlight and earth.
And Isabella? She smirked. Of course, she looked good. She always looked good.
