An hour later, Elyra barely recognized herself.
The black wool gown was heavy on her shoulders. The silver lion clasp at her throat caught the torchlight as she walked. Her rust-colored hair was pulled back—severe, tight, the way Veyrannese women wore it for war councils and funerals.
The corridor leading to the council chambers was lined with Free Riders.
Seralyne's riders. Hard-faced women and men with ice in their beards and swords at their hips and the kind of eyes that had seen worse things than politics. They stood at attention as Maeven passed, fists over their hearts, and the sound of their boots striking stone in unison echoed through the corridor like a drumbeat.
Maeven walked ahead. She wore black from throat to floor—black wool, black fur, the silver lion pinned over her heart. Her silver hair was braided in the Veyrannese crown plait, the one reserved for ruling queens. Meyrn's signet ring glinted on her finger.
