A Marriage of Swords
It was a room for show, and today’s show was a farce.
Makil stood near the fireplace, a cold cup of untouched wine in his hand, watching as the four entered.
They were a study in pastels and perfumed anticipation.
First was Adelaide of House Bellamy, from the fertile southern plains. Blonde curls artfully arranged, eyes wide and blue as a summer sky. She smiled instantly, a practiced, sweet curve of the lips. She curtsied so low the ribbons on her gown brushed the polished floor. “Your Highness,” she breathed, her voice like honey.