The war drums were too loud.

  Princess Everburn stood at the top of the stone steps leading into the great hall, her hands resting lightly at her sides, fingers twitching against the heavy fabric of her gown. The royal musicians, positioned on the battlements, pyed a harsh, cnging melody meant for marching armies, not courtly receptions. It was meant to be grand. It was just obnoxious.

  The castle gates groaned open, revealing the long-awaited guest. Lord Harriot rode at the front of his party, his armor gleaming despite the dust of travel, his posture upright in a way that suggested he had practiced it. His great warhorse stomped forward as if it, too, believed this moment to be of great importance.

  The guards along the courtyard straightened at his approach, though she caught one of them suppressing a yawn. The court attendants whispered, but their words were hardly reverent.

  "Is this going to take long?"

  "Gods, I hope they don't make us stand here for a speech."

  Lord Harriot’s gaze lifted toward her, and she met it evenly, studying him as he studied her. He was not unpleasant to look at, she supposed—broad-shouldered, square-jawed, radiating the kind of self-assurance only a man who has never been told no could possess. A pity. A man who had never been told no had never learned anything worth knowing.

  Then, with the fir of a stage performer who had rehearsed this moment a thousand times, he swung off his horse. His boots hit the ground harder than intended—just shy of a stumble. His cloak, caught in an unfortunately timed gust, billowed dramatically… and then wrapped halfway around his face before he recovered. With an exaggerated smoothness, he removed his gloves one finger at a time, as though each deserved its own moment of admiration. Then he bowed—deep, practiced, and entirely too pleased with himself.

  Then her father arrived.

  Not with a grand entrance. Not with the slow, measured stride of a king greeting a powerful suitor. No, King Everburn simply appeared, mid-step, as if he’d been on his way somewhere else and got caught in the act. A man who had already decided what would happen next.

  She suppressed a sigh.

  Behind Lord Harriot, his retinue dismounted. Mud-spttered men, their cloaks still damp from the st stretch of travel, their exhaustion poorly masked beneath rigid posture. And yet, among them, one figure stood out—pristine, well-dressed, and clearly unbothered by the road.

  It was Lord Harriot's jester of all people. The elf smiled as he adjusted the cuffs of his immacute sleeves. His knowing eyes flicked to her briefly before turning to watch Lord Harriot’s comedic arrival with a grin, like he knew a good joke when he saw one.

  Princess Everburn exhaled quietly through her nose. At least somebody was having fun.