News of the heir spread fast through Itod, twisting and turning through the cities like a wild river. With the threat of the Magi that had sworn themselves to Dal and his Prophet fading, Queen Senea has taken aim to reclaim her throne in the city of...
Flitting from one side of the room to the other, Senea's handmaidens doted on her every whim. A sniffle? One was there to pat her nose with a clean piece of cloth. A slight movement of hand to scratch her scalp? One was there with a comb.
It bothered Senea that so many were there to help her. Lady Elika paced back and forth, the words flowing from her mouth like a freshly turned river. "Now, remember to not bring up Gyren to Lady Mala. If she questions where he is -"
Senea nodded her head as her hair was gripped on both sides and being braided. "He is down in Yasdenia."
"Good, and Sir Lement is old fashioned, despite his age. He will discuss nothing but the prospect of marriage to you and implant the notion that there has never been a queen from the Valland region." Lady Elika stopped speaking, taking in a breath and moving towards the vanity before starting all over again. "No. Not like that. That's too much of Orriel fashion. Neutral."
"Yes, Lady Snowthorne," the handmaiden said before undoing the braid.
"The only other one to respond, besides Sir Orwen, is Sir Hector. He is old. Perhaps too old to be a council member. Best to speak on his right. No, not twists. She's never been to Summercoast, before."
"Of course, Lady Snowthorne."
Senea turned her body, the handmaidens around her a flurry of motions to redo the hair. "Perhaps a simple braid will do?"
Lady Elika nodded and forced Senea to turn back towards the mirror. "One last thing. Stay close to Magnar. No matter what, do not let him leave your side tonight."
Senea felt her brow tighten at the words. "Dare I ask why?"
Lady Elika was handed an elegantly designed crown, thin twists and twirls holding thick crystals in place. She adjusted it on Senea's head, her lips drawn in as the braid was finished. "I worry not only due to the last festival we had did not end very well, but also because it would hurt so much more."
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Magnar supported Senea's arm just over his as they walked into the great hall. The dress was thick, surprisingly so, but she felt cold bumps race along the bare skin of her collar and shoulders. The people all bowed or curtsied, clapping as she returned the gesture. It was far different than the harvest festival, Senea noticed. Soft music played in place of the loud style she had danced to before. It felt entirely too eerie and serene compared to what she expected and knew.
Magnar escorted her back to the throne, standing just to her right, a fist resting on his sword. He wore thicker leather than she had never seen him wear. He looked less like he was attending a festival and more like he was prepared for an attack. Stealing a glance at her, his lips curled slightly upon noticing her gaze was on him.
"Your grace," Lord Snowthorne said as he walked up the steps to the throne, bowing as he did. Senea nodded her head as she watched a man with a long, dirty gray beard step just behind Lord Snowthorne. "Allow me to introduce the Council member of the western region, Sir Hector."
