Restrained applause followed. Small nods of approval rippled through the gathering.
She curtsied. “Thank you, Your Majesty. Though I come from another land, I am here to learn from Asadia’s strength and contribute to its unity. I am honoured to call this kingdom my home.”
She lifted her chin slightly, adding in what she hoped was flawless Asadian, “Vas’tahr linethra, vas’salith kuathra.”
A ripple of surprise coursed through the courtiers—some murmuring, others nodding in quiet approval. Kaelen and Alarik both looked faintly puffed with pride.
She had practiced the motto over and over with Amina while dressing—‘The desert teaches us, and unity strengthens us.’
This was only the beginning. The desert was vast, and she had only just begun to find her place within it.
The king took her arm and ushered her toward the two figures standing several paces away—a man and a woman. They stood positioned just so—carefully framed beneath the gilded awning, where the desert sun caught the emerald gleam of the woman’s silks and the silver sheen of her ornaments.
Even without introduction, Reiya knew who they were. And true to the reputation, the lady didn’t seem like the type who’d wait to be noticed.
Why would she, when by appearance alone, she’d ensured she would be?
“Princess,” the king said. “Allow me to introduce you to High Chancellor Hassamir Mezerin, whose service has long been a pillar of this kingdom.”
Reiya made herself look to Hassamir first, though it took effort—Lady Annaïs was every bit as striking as the rumours claimed, and it was difficult not to stare.
Her father was a man whose posture carried the weight of experience, his expression one of quiet authority—not a king, but a man who seemed to have learned to wield power in his own way. Silver streaked through his dark beard and hair, lending him an air of wisdom, but it was the sharp calculation in his gaze that piqued Reiya’s interest.
A patient man. One who understood that power was not seized in haste but cultivated season by season until it became undeniable.
And beside him was his masterpiece: the High Lady of Mezerin, Annaïs, the ghost of a future that had almost been.
But there was nothing ghostly about the woman standing before her now.
She was draped in emerald silk, silver embroidery curling along the fabric in intricate filigree, its pattern reminiscent of the vines that clung to the stone walls of Asadia’s oldest palaces. Her veil, delicate as frost, framed her face without obscuring it, allowing the full force of her beauty—her sharp cheekbones, full lips, and knowing dark eyes—to remain visible. Her skin had a healthy, sun-bronzed glow all women strived for whenever they went out in the sun, but not all could achieve.
She was a woman born to be looked at, and she knew it.
Even the smallest of movements—the graceful turn of her wrist, the glittering ornaments on her fingers and hair, the way her silver bracelets sang like soft wind chimes—were calculated to draw the eye, to command attention.
And from the hush that fell over the gathering, she knew it was working.
Hassamir stepped forward first, bowing.
“Princess Reiyana,” he greeted, his voice smooth, polished. “It is a privilege to welcome you. My daughter, Lady Annaïs, and I are honoured to be here to celebrate this momentous occasion.”
Reiya inclined her head, keeping her expression composed. “The honour is mine, High Chancellor. Lady Annaïs. I have heard much of your service and your loyalty.”
A small courtesy. A calculated choice of words. And she saw it land in the flicker of amusement behind Hassamir’s eyes.
Service. A recognition of his duty.
Loyalty. A reminder that it was expected.
He smiled faintly. “You are most gracious, Princess.”
Then Annaïs stepped forward, and the court seemed to lean in, holding a collective breath.
The lady neither paused nor hesitated. She reached out and embraced Reiya, as if they weren’t strangers who’d just been introduced at court, but two old friends reunited.
Reiya felt the cool brush of silk, the soft press of bracelets against her back, the whisper of rose and frankincense perfume—it was all precise, choreographed. A touch meant not for genuine intimacy, but for spectacle.
The faintest pressure of lips against her cheek was cool, perfunctory. A lesser woman might’ve stiffened, might’ve let the weight of courtly eyes make her uncertain.