Meanwhile, in the Palace, there was tension.
Faeralys sat slouched in a chair that probably cost more than her family's entire estate, glaring at the table set before her. The Garden Lounge was a verdant paradise—roses blooming with the kind of effortlessness that only endless royal gardeners and obscene budgets could achieve. The air smelled of jasmine, ambition, and passive aggression.
She wasn't stupid. She knew a trap when she saw one.
Across from her, perched like a smug peacock, was Esmeralda, the self-proclaimed queen bee of the harem. Esmeralda was all sugary smiles and venomous undertones, surrounded by her handpicked cronies: Tarriel Opulai and Margarette Edalia. They flanked her like decorative guard dogs, each with their own flavor of sycophancy.
"You've been summoned to a tea party," they'd said. "It'll be delightful," they'd said.
