Sera Whitmore squinted up at the palace gates and made a face.
"Looks like someone overcompensating," she muttered.
Behind her, two palace guards exchanged confused glances. They didn't understand her Avalish tongue, but they understood tone. Sera offered them a sweet smile, then immediately turned back to the gates with a sigh.
The gates were massive—ironwood carved into dragons and lacquered black, their eyes inlaid with amber. An entire army could have marched through the archway without brushing the sides. Sera imagined that was the point.
"Big doors, big ego," she added in a sing-song voice.
"Miss Whitmore," her escort hissed, his Avalai accent crisp, "you are moments from entering the Imperial Court. Please try not to insult the architecture."
Sera turned and gave him a mock-solemn bow. "Apologies. I'll save my opinions for the curtains."
In truth, she was impressed. Not just by the palace's beauty, but its silence. The air held a kind of reverence, like stepping into a library carved from gold. She didn't say that part aloud. Her escort might faint from relief.
She adjusted her skirts—rich brocade dyed in Avalai blue and cream—and stepped forward. Her boots clicked lightly on the polished stone path. Her first steps into the palace of Avalai.
The thought should have felt heavy. Instead, it tickled.
Adventure.
"Are you even nervous?" her escort asked, incredulous.
"Terrified," Sera said breezily. "That's why I'm smiling."
He groaned softly. "You were sent here to represent the Whitmore name. Your country's alliance depends on this marriage agreement."
"I know," she said, glancing at him sideways. "And if your people are going to marry me off like a fine teapot, I intend to enjoy the ceremony."
He looked scandalized. Sera laughed.
They entered the inner courtyard. Attendants parted before her like birds startled from a pond. She curtsied politely, head held high.
A palace steward greeted her with a bow. "Lady Sera Whitmore. You are to be betrothed to Lord Yexian, son of the Minister of Ceremonies. You will be taken to the Garden Quarters."
"Excellent," she said brightly. "And do tell my future husband—if he's anything like his father, I'd prefer he not speak until tea is served."
The steward blinked. Then blinked again.
Sera offered another dazzling smile.
She was already making waves. Good.
The palace was a place of silence and shadows. Everyone moved carefully, spoke softly, obeyed rules whispered centuries ago.
But Sera had grown up fencing with words, dueling in salons and dinners across half a continent. She might not belong here—but she wasn't afraid.
She was a foreign rose.
And she had no intention of wilting.