The invitation arrived wrapped in gold.
Not metaphorically.
Actual gold thread ran through the thick parchment, glinting faintly in the candlelight as it was presented to me by a palace courier who knelt low enough to press his forehead to the marble floor.
I did not need to break the seal to know what it was.
My fingers hovered over the envelope, the imperial crest pressed deep into black wax—two dragons entwined, wings outstretched, eternal and unforgiving.
The Yearly Imperial Hunt.
I exhaled slowly.
So this is where they decide who matters this year.
"My lady," the courier said carefully, eyes still lowered. "The Emperor requests your presence. Along with Duke De Falon."
Requests, in the Draconian Empire, were merely commands dressed politely.
"You may rise," I said, keeping my voice even.
He bowed again and withdrew, footsteps fading into the distance. The room felt suddenly smaller, the walls closer, as though the palace itself had leaned in to listen.
