The capital woke early.
Not to chaos.
To anticipation.
Servants moved through palace corridors with hushed efficiency, lighting lanterns though morning sun had already begun to filter through tall windows. White silk hung from balcony rails. Gold-threaded banners were unfurled carefully, each crease smoothed by patient hands.
Temple bells rang once.
Not a summons.
An announcement.
Princess Isolde Lysoria would take her Second Royal Consort today.
In her private chamber, Isolde sat before a tall mirror framed in carved ivory. Her hair fell loose over her shoulders as attendants worked quietly behind her, fingers weaving gold-threaded ribbons through dark strands.
The gown laid out before her was not bridal white in innocence.
It was imperial white.
Structured.
Commanding.
Gold embroidery traced the neckline and sleeves, catching light with subtle authority.
She looked less like a bride.
More like a sovereign accepting an alliance of her choosing.
