Aeron Valdamar did not fight wars with swords unless it was absolutely necessary. He preferred to fight them with human nature.
Thirty minutes after the secret War Council in the tack room concluded, the Crown Prince strode into the East Wing's grand fitting room. He looked every inch the Paragon—his gold braiding immaculate, his posture a testament to divine right, and his white silk gloves pristine.
Victoria was currently terrorizing a seamstress about the drape of an ivory tulle underskirt.
"Victoria, my dear," Aeron announced, his smooth, baritone voice cutting through the frantic snipping of shears.
Victoria immediately released the seamstress, smoothing her own expression into a mask of regal adoration. "Your Highness. We are... accelerating. The timeline is tight, but I assure you, my gown will be flawless."
"I have no doubt of your physical perfection," Aeron said, stepping into the room. "However, I have just come from a rather... distressing meeting with the Empress."
