The King did not ride with her. After that brief, searing encounter at the border, he had vanished back into the cloud of golden dust raised by his cavalry, leaving Elara alone in the stifling confines of the carriage. As the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the Southern plains in bruised purples and blood-reds, the interior of the coach grew dark. It was then that Elara noticed it—a lacquered box of deep ebony sitting on the seat opposite her, where nothing had been moments before.
With trembling fingers, she lifted the lid. Inside, resting on a bed of crimson silk, lay a collar of woven gold, so fine it felt like fabric. At its center was a single, teardrop-shaped diamond that burned with an inner light. There was no note, but the message was louder than any shout: she was no longer a Princess of the North; she was an ornament of the Sun-Throne.
She pushed the box away, a surge of nausea rising in her throat. The heat of the South was a physical presence now, a heavy cloak that made every breath a labor. She reached for the window to draw the leather curtain for air, but a shadow blocked the light. Lord Malcor was there, riding close enough that his stirrup brushed the carriage door.
"The King expects to see that around your throat by dinner, Princess," Malcor said, his voice light but carrying a razor-sharp edge. "In our land, we do not leave gifts from the Sovereign unacknowledged. It is considered a declaration of war."
"I am already at war, My Lord," Elara snapped, her eyes flashing with a spark of the old Oakhaven fire. "Or have you forgotten the smoke that still rises from our villages?"
Malcor laughed, a sound that was chillingly melodic. "Oh, we haven't forgotten. But you must learn the difference between a battlefield and a court. On the field, the enemy is in front of you. In the Palace of Mirrors, the enemy is the air you breathe, the wine you drink, and the man who sleeps in the chamber next to yours."
The carriage slowed as they entered the courtyard of a desert waystation—a sprawling villa of white stone and cooling fountains. As the door opened, Elara stepped out into the dry night air. The soldiers stood in two perfect lines, their brass masks reflecting the torchlight. At the end of the line stood King Valerius, his black-gold armor replaced by robes of deep scarlet.
He didn't look at her face. His eyes went straight to her bare, pale throat. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
"The girl is stubborn," Valerius remarked to Malcor, his voice a low vibration that seemed to rattle the very stones beneath Elara's feet. "I find I like the way her skin pales when she is afraid. It makes the marks I intend to leave much easier to see."