"He grows sharper with every passing day," he muttered at last, his voice low, weighted with both pride and unease. "I fear his temper will one day burn him faster than any enemy blade."
The empress dabbed her lips delicately, then leaned back in her chair with a graceful ease, her eyes following the space where their son had vanished. "He is his father's son. Do you not remember the way you once left this very table when your council dared to go against me?"
The emperor's jaw tightened, but a reluctant sigh escaped him. "That was different."
"Was it?" she asked, her tone airy, but her gaze sharp as steel. "He carries the same fire you did, and the same pride. Only… his flame is fanned by another wind, Lady Marlene."
The emperor finally looked at her, his brow furrowed. "You strike too close, my wife. Do you truly believe that girl holds such sway over him?"
"I do not believe," the empress replied, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "I see, every word, every breath he takes is weighed against whether she is near him or far. He sits here tonight with us, yet in truth, his thoughts are already walking with her in some distant forest. You, my husband, should be proud. For once, our son has found someone who stirs his heart more than his sword."
The emperor leaned back with a troubled sigh, rubbing his temple. "Perhaps. Yet hearts are fragile things to tie one's future to, especially for a crown prince. Love does not guard borders, nor does it keep enemies at bay."
"Mm… perhaps that holds true in most cases. Yet here, I can assure you, Lady Marlene will guard the borders with unyielding resolve and keep every foe at bay." The empress raised her cup, a subtle glimmer dancing in her eyes. "Still, you must know, it is the heart that forges the sharpest blade. To protect what he treasures, he will fight with a strength no army could ever rival."
For a long moment, the Emperor said nothing. Then, with a faint, weary smile, he raised his own cup in reluctant agreement. "You do know your son best."
"Well, what can I say?" The empress's lips curved into a knowing smile, her voice carrying both pride and mischief. "I am his mother, after all."
The days slipped swiftly into weeks as preparations for the Wraisan princess's arrival took form. Two chambers within the Jade Palace were readied, one richly appointed for the princess and the other adjoining for her retinue of knights. By Anton's order, the rooms were placed within the busier quarter of the palace, so that every servant's eye might fall upon them, and no suspicious act pass unnoticed. Further, he commanded that any strange movement or whispered word be brought to him without delay.
At last, the appointed day arrived. Before the grand entrance of the Jade Palace, a reception had been arranged with all the weight of courtesy that befit a royal guest. The head maid of the palace stood in her crisp attire, two attendants at her side. Beside her, Anton Benton, the solemn head butler, bore himself with the rigid dignity of his station. At the fore, awaiting with measured composure, stood the crown prince himself, Flavian Attila Hadrian, flanked by his chosen knights: Commander Elzar Amadori of the First Division, and Vice Commander Hendricus of the Second, serving as stand-in.
The stillness of anticipation broke with the thunder of hooves upon stone. The carriage, wrought in black lacquer and bearing proudly the imperial emblem of Astandra, rolled into view. Its wheels ground to a halt before the steps of the Jade Palace, and as the door was drawn open, all eyes fixed upon the figure within.
Descending with measured grace, the Princess of Wraisan emerged. Crown Prince Flavian, as custom demanded, extended his hand. She accepted it lightly, her movements a blend of regality and rehearsed poise. Her hair fell in a cascade of midnight black, streaked with strands of silvery-white, like moonlight bound within night's veil. Her eyes, golden amber, with sparks of bronze, held a brilliance that caught the sun, burning with both warmth and the promise of fire.
Her gown of amethyst silk shimmered in the daylight, the silver-thread embroidery gleaming like stars stitched into twilight. She carried herself as though the very breath of her empire lingered about her: proud, unassailable, and radiant in a manner that commanded both awe and unease.
"Welcome to the Imperial Palace of Astandra, Princess of Wraisan," Flavian intoned, his voice steady, his hand releasing hers with practised formality.
Her golden eyes lingered upon him a moment too long. In that silence, admiration flickered, as though she measured him in his stature, his countenance, his composure and found him a match to her beauty. Yet the moment passed swiftly. With a faint smile, she withdrew her hand and inclined her head.
"Thank you for permitting my stay, Your Highness, Crown Prince Flavian Attila Hadrian," she replied, her voice smooth, cultured, and faintly edged with the pride of her empire.
The reception bowed slightly, acknowledging her presence, while her retinue of Wraisan knights followed in guarded silence. Stepping forward, the head maid curtsied. "Welcome, Your Highness. If it pleases you, allow us to guide you to your chamber, for surely the road has wearied you."
The princess gave a faint nod, satisfied. With quiet grace, she and her escort followed the palace servants through the marble halls. When they reached the prepared chambers, the maid indicated the waiting servant who would attend her.
"This is your lady-in-waiting during your stay, Highness," the head maid announced with practised deference. Then, bowing low, she added, "Rest well, for on the morrow the formal audience with Their Imperial Majesties awaits."
The princess inclined her head in acknowledgement, her golden eyes glinting with something unspoken. The maid withdrew, leaving the Wraisan princess within her appointed quarters, her presence a jewel placed carefully in the heart of the Astandra court, yet one whose gleam promised peril as much as splendour.