It is a truth universally acknowledged that if a kingdom appears peaceful, its rulers are probably missing the real disaster entirely. In this case, the disaster in question was brewing not only in the distant villages and restless city quarters, but also most disconcertingly in the teacups of the royal drawing room.
Queen Verania , First of Her Name, Defender of Protocol and Dread of Political Fops, tapped her spoon three times on the rim of her porcelain cup. Each tap was precisely measured, as if she could marshal order into existence through sheer rhythm.
Sylvithra, poured herself a second cup, then a third. She had always preferred tea as a strategy: it was a beverage best drunk slowly, while watching the world unravel at a controlled pace.
The fire crackled. The air was thick with the perfume of burning cedar, polished silver, and the faint, indefinable tension that hovers just before a thunderstorm or an argument.
