The descent from the Palace District felt like a slow-motion fall through a kingdom of glass. Nevareth was a city of verticality and sharp, unforgiving angles, and as Eris rode Solara down the winding imperial thoroughfares, she felt the eyes of a nation pressing against her skin.
This was the informal introduction she hadn't asked for. The whole of the capital knew by now that the "Tyrant of Solmire" had been draped in Nevarian furs and crowned as their Empress.
As they passed through the Palace District, the highest and most insular point of the city, the air was silent, save for the rhythmic clatter of hooves on the ice-slicked stone. Here, the architecture was all gleaming ice and white marble, designed to reflect the sun and blind the unworthy. The nobles watched from high, narrow balconies, their faces unreadable masks of high-born curiosity.
