The capital didn't just smell like wealth and power, it was also reeked of deception. It was a thick, cloying scent that seemed to stick to the back of the throat until you couldn't taste anything else. But for a younger Cherion, it was the smell of home, or at least the closest thing a boy of his standing could claim within the sprawling, white-marble labyrinth of the Royal Palace.
He was running. He shouldn't have been, nobles didn't run, they moved with a measured, effortless elegance, but Cherion had never quite mastered the art of being bored. His heart was a frantic bird against his ribs, each beat filled with hope. Today was the day.
Cherion had spent the last three nights awake, his eyes stinging by candlelight, stitching together a protection charm that he was certain, well, almost certain, would make Yerel smile.
