Hope

The silver cutlery gleams like captured starlight against the white tablecloth. Steam curls lazily from the teapot, and the scent of cinnamon and fruit lingers in the air. It should be a peaceful morning—should being the key word.

I sit at the long breakfast table, spine straight, smile practiced, the very image of poised serenity. *Raya.* That’s who I am here. Raya, the guest. The foreign envoy. The woman King Camille is politely intrigued by—but nothing more.

At least, that’s what Lady Elira wants to believe.

I sip my tea, pretending not to notice the whisper of soft slippers across marble. Then I hear her voice—smooth, deliberate, dripping satisfaction....