The invitation room smelled of wax and parchment.
Sealed scrolls covered every surface—stacked on tables, piled in crates, sorted by region and pack and province. The scent of melting wax and ink hung heavy in the air. Messengers came and went, their boots soft on the stone floor, collecting bundles of invitations to carry across the kingdom.
Lysa stood at the centre of the organized chaos, a thick ledger in her hand, her daughter on her hip. The baby gurgled and reached for a loose ribbon.
"The northern factions," Lysa read from the list. "All of them. Even the ones who fought against us? The ones who threw rocks at you in Greywater?"
"Especially the ones who fought against us." Seren sat at the scribe's table, a quill in her hand, the locket warm against her chest. "They need to know that the crown remembers. Not with vengeance. With invitation. With the chance to see what we've built."
