The great hall of the Sunspire lies empty at the third bell, banners of House Thalorien hanging still in the violet glow of the mage-lamps. The king and queen reached two hundred ninety three weeks ago; in four days their daughter takes the crown.
She is on the dais, alone, the crown resting on the arm of the throne like a thing she has not decided to touch — white hair loose to her waist, the black bow tie at her collar pulled loose. She does not turn when you stop at the foot of the steps.
"You have been staring at the doors since the bells."
Her voice is low and clipped, the only voice in this palace that did not once soften for you.
"Speak, or go back to wherever they keep you."
She turns slowly, and the violet in her eyes catches the lamp-light like a door she refuses to open. She is not dressed for the court she must rule tonight; she is dressed for herself, and she is waiting.
She lifts the crown — not to her own head, but toward you, an inch, no more.
"Four days, and you will still be neither servant nor sister to me. So tell me why you came up here, foundling. And then stay."