The train from the Cold Iron District to the capital was finer than Marise had expected.
She had braced herself for something cramped, something worn, something that would remind her exactly where she'd come from. Instead, the carriage was clean and well-lit, with cushioned seats and windows so clear she could see every detail of the countryside sliding past.
Her father, Aldric, had paid for first class.
When she'd asked him about it, he'd simply said, "If we're going to the imperial ball, we're going properly."
Her mother, Elara, sat beside her, fingers busy with embroidery that didn't need doing, a sure sign of nerves. She had been against this trip at first, worried about the expense, the danger, the simple uncertainty of it all.
But her husband had insisted.
And her daughter had begged.
And somewhere beneath the worry, she was curious too.
"Stop fidgeting," Elara said without looking up from her needlework.
"I'm not fidgeting."
