Three weeks. Twenty-one days. Five hundred and four hours.
The numbers repeated in Kaia's mind like the tolling of a funeral bell as the Throne Room erupted into a frenzy of aristocratic panic.
"Move," Victoria commanded, her manicured fingers digging into Kaia's arm with the force of a hawk's talons. "We must reach the Imperial Tailor before the Duchess of Kent buys out the remaining stock of ivory silk. If you wear anything less than virgin white, I will drown you in the moat."
"Victoria, my arm," Kaia hissed, stumbling as her sister practically dragged her down the aisle.
Kaia looked back over her shoulder. The crowd was a swirling mass of bodies, but her eyes instinctively sought the dais.
Aeron was still standing there. He was surrounded by a swarm of military advisors and panicked ministers, all demanding his attention regarding the sudden shift in the diplomatic calendar. He stood in the center of the storm, a pillar of infuriatingly calm, golden perfection.
