The Throne Room of Eldharûn was like a cold church. The black obsidian floors shone like mirrors, reflecting the flickering orange light from a hundred iron braziers. It was designed to make anyone feel small. As Emery stood at the bottom of the dais, she had never felt more like a speck of dust in a windstorm.
She wore the dress of gold—the one that had felt heavy during the fittings. Up close, the metallic threads were stiff and rubbed against her collarbones. The weight of the skirts made each step a challenge. Her white hair, no longer hidden under a maid's cap, had been braided with silver wire and flowed down her back like a frozen waterfall.
"Be still," Grizel had whispered before pushing her through the doors. "And for the love of the gods, look grateful."
Emery wasn't grateful. She felt numb.
