The next morning dawned with a deceptive, golden clarity the sort of day when the castle's towers caught fire with sunlight and the hedges in the garden seemed more sculpted, more alive, as if magic itself were humming beneath the surface. I should have felt hope, or at least relief, after so much effort and reconciliation. But the air tasted strange. Heavy. A storm in disguise.
I awoke to find Mara's latest peace treaty taped to my bedroom door ("NO SPELLS BEFORE COFFEE," it read, in ink that shimmered between royal blue and a distinct shade of chaos). I grinned, then caught my own reflection in the glass: hair wild, eyes a little too tired, a princess pretending to be fearless. The illusion worked better in daylight, with an army of friends behind me.
