The sun rose over the Capital, which was rude, honestly. The sun should have had the decency to stay behind a cloud considering the absolute disaster on the ground.
The Grand Pavilion—once the jewel of the Royal Gardens—was now a very expensive pile of firewood.
Primrose sat on a mostly intact marble bench, staring at the ruins. She was wearing a dress covered in soot, her hair was a bird's nest, and she had a ring on her finger worth more than a small island.
"So," Primrose muttered to herself. "I'm engaged. And homeless."
"Technically," a smooth voice corrected from behind her, "you are transient. Homeless implies poverty. You are merely... displaced."
Caspian sat down next to her. He had somehow managed to clean the dust off his blue velvet coat, though his hair was still damp from the water shield. He handed her a cup of tea.
"Where did you get tea?" Primrose asked, taking it greedily.
