The Imperial Summons arrived on a silver platter, carried by a footman who looked terrified to be holding it.
It was a heavy, cream-colored envelope sealed with the golden wax of the Sun-Throne. To anyone else in Arindale, it was a ticket to paradise. To Kaia, it looked remarkably like a death warrant.
"It's here," Lady Victoria breathed.
She stood in the center of the drawing room, her posture so rigid she looked like she had swallowed a musket. She reached out, her hand steady, and broke the seal.
Kaia sat on the divan, nursing a cup of tea that she wished was brandy. Her head was still throbbing from the whiskey, and the missing glove was a phantom weight in her mind. Every time a door opened, she expected the Royal Guard to burst in, waving the piece of silk like a flag of treason.
"Well?" their mother asked, clutching a handkerchief. "What does it say?"
Victoria's blue eyes scanned the parchment. A slow, terrifying smile spread across her face.
"Pack your trunks," Victoria said, her voice trembling with triumphant ambition. "We are moving to the Palace. The Emperor has made his match."
The carriage ride to the Imperial Palace was a study in suffocation.
Kaia was strapped into a corset so tight she could feel her pulse in her eyeballs. Opposite her, Victoria was lecturing her on the intricacies of court etiquette for the forty-seventh time.
"Do not speak unless spoken to," Victoria recited, smoothing her silk skirts. "Do not laugh loudly. Do not slouch. And for the love of the Gods, Kaia, do not look at the Crown Prince directly. It is considered presumptuous."
"I thought the point of marriage was to look at your husband," Kaia muttered, staring out the window as the massive, golden gates of the palace loomed closer.
"It is not a marriage yet," Victoria snapped. "It is a courtship. A trial. The Emperor believes in the sanctity of falling in love, but make no mistake—if you embarrass House Taryn, I will personally ensure you are shipped off to a convent in the Frozen Wastes."
Kaia didn't doubt her. Victoria would make a terrifyingly efficient nun-herder.
The carriage rolled to a stop. The door opened, revealing a bustling courtyard filled with liveried servants, guards in golden armor, and the intimidating grandeur of the Arindale court.
Kaia stepped out, her satin slipper hitting the cobblestones. The air smelled of expensive perfume and horse manure—the scent of power.
"Welcome, ladies," a steward intoned, bowing low. "Their Majesties await you in the Sun Room."
The Sun Room was blinding.
Walls of mirrors reflected the light of a dozen crystal chandeliers, amplifying the brilliance until it hurt the eyes. At the far end of the room, seated on high velvet chairs, were the Emperor and Empress.
The Emperor looked bored, tapping his fingers on the armrest. The Empress looked ecstatic, clutching a fan as if she were about to witness the premiere of a grand opera.
But Kaia didn't look at them.
Her gaze was drawn to the two figures standing to the right of the throne.
The first was younger, with rich, chocolate-brown hair and a gentle, nervous smile. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, looking like he would rather be anywhere else. Prince Beckett. Her intended. He looked... nice. Safe.
The second man was a statue carved from light.
He was tall, with broad shoulders encased in a stiff black military coat adorned with gold braiding. His hair was a pale, sun-kissed gold that seemed to glow under the chandeliers. His face was a mask of perfect, marble indifference.
And on his hands, pristine and stark against the black wool, were white silk gloves.
The Paragon.
Kaia felt a strange, cold shiver run down her spine. It wasn't fear. It was... recognition?
No. She shook her head slightly. Impossible.
The man in the garden had been a creature of darkness and smoke. He had smelled of tobacco and sin. This man smelled of nothing but soap and superiority. He stood so still he might as well have been furniture.
"Lady Victoria Taryn," the Emperor boomed. "Lady Kaia Taryn. Step forward."
They curtsied in unison—a move Victoria had drilled into Kaia since birth.
"We have watched you," the Empress gushed, leaning forward. "We have consulted the stars, the lineage charts, and our own hearts. And we have found perfection."
She gestured dramatically to the golden-haired statue.
"Lady Victoria, you shall be courted by our eldest, Crown Prince Aeron. A match of dignity and grace."
Victoria rose, her face glowing. She walked toward Aeron, extending a gloved hand. Aeron took it. He didn't smile. He didn't bow. He simply held her fingers—barely touching them—and nodded once.
"It is an honor, My Lady," he said.
His voice.
Kaia's head snapped up. It was smooth. Melodic. Polished.
It lacked the rough, gravelly edge of the man in the garden. It sounded... hollow.
"And Lady Kaia," the Empress continued, beaming at the younger sister. "You shall be courted by Prince Beckett. A match of spirit and heart."
Beckett stepped forward. He smiled at Kaia—a genuine, warm expression that crinkled the corners of his silver-grey eyes.
"Lady Kaia," Beckett said softly. "Welcome to the family."
Kaia forced a smile. She took her place beside him, feeling like a fraud.
From across the room, Aeron turned his head.
For the first time, his gaze landed on Kaia.
His eyes were a piercing silver-grey. Cold steel. There was no heat in them. No recognition. He looked at her the way one might look at a mildly interesting vase.
But as his gaze swept over her—taking in the silver hair, the defiant tilt of her chin, the way she was clearly holding her breath—his eyes narrowed, just a fraction.
Aeron felt a jolt. A phantom sensation of heat in his palms. A memory of silk sliding over skin.
He dismissed it instantly.
This child? This terrified debutante in a dress that looked like it was strangling her?
Impossible, Aeron thought, turning back to Victoria's perfect, boring face. The woman in the garden was a storm. This girl is just a draft.
But as the court applauded the perfect matches, Aeron found his hand drifting to his chest pocket, where a small, stolen white glove lay hidden against his heart.