The summons from Prince Lucian came on the last day but one. It was not delivered by a page, but by a man in unmarked, well-tailored clothes who simply appeared at my door, bowed, and said, "His Highness Prince Lucian requests the pleasure of your company in the Sunlight Gallery at your convenience, my lady." The absence of fanfare or uniform was its own message: this was a private, off-record meeting.
The Sunlight Gallery was a long, glass-enclosed walkway connecting two wings of the administrative palace, usually bustling with courtiers. At this hour, on Lucian's command, it was deserted. He stood at the far end, silhouetted against the afternoon sun, looking out not at the gardens but northwards, towards the distant, hazy line that was the beginning of the mountains.
I walked towards him, my footsteps silent on the thick runner. The air was warm, heavy with the scent of forced blooms, a cloying contrast to the austerity I was preparing for.
