The palace shone with lanterns and whispers of jubilation. Larna, draped in silks and silver, sat atop the throne that had once been denied to her, her eyes glinting with unspoken pride. Acclamation echoed along the marbled halls, courtiers lifting goblets to celebrate her return. But beneath the smile of triumph, tension churned like a serpent in the folds of a basket.

Melucia stood in the balcony, her stance regal but guarded. Each smile she received was practiced, calibrated. The scent of ...