Soraya's POV
The moment I stepped out of the palace doors, a cold morning breeze brushed against my armor, carrying with it the smell of fresh hay and polished steel. The courtyard was alive—dozens of hunting chariots lined in sharp, disciplined rows. Each one was built for two: the rider seated at the front, reins in hand, while two others stood behind on the wide platform. Lean frames, reinforced wheels, polished wood and metal—built for speed, maneuvering, and showing off royal skill.
Guards stood ready in many of them, their armor glinting under the morning sun.
But Princess Seraphine was nowhere in sight.
I scanned the crowd—until an irritated voice sliced toward me.
Pamela.
She strode out from between two chariots wearing her own hunting armor, silver and red, chin high, expression instantly souring when she spotted me.
"You?" she hissed. "What are you doing here?"
I opened my mouth—no answer formed fast enough.
But salvation came from behind Pamela.
Alderon.
