The Whirlock led the envoy. People would pause in their fields to marvel at it's greatness. Isadora had decided to keep it. She argued it was the only way the rebels would fear the crown.
Inside the royal carriage, Alexander sat close to his wife and Roselyn sat opposite, her nose buried in a book. She wore a golden tiara and an emblem of Arcadia on the right, plus the new sigil of the empire on the left breast. Isadora studied her wordlessly but her face gave to nothing.
"I'm sorry about your mother," she said at last, and only then did Roselyn lift her face for the briefest of moments before she perused another page and busied herself.
In truth, Isadora knew the execution affected her yet she feigned her emotions. She had stood there as the sword was brought down and severed Felista's head from her shoulders, unblinkingly. Yet, not a tear rolled on her face. A person who had seen great turmoil as Roselyn... She sighed. Would she ever love again?
