The great doors of the Imperial Court groaned open. The whispering nobles, the shifting courtiers, the servants frozen mid-step, fell silent all at once.
Angela entered alone.
No guards flanked her as she walked the long, polished aisle of the throne room as though she had never been gone. Looking at her now, it felt like the years in the dungeon were nothing more than a brief interlude in an otherwise unbroken reign of presence.
Her gown was deep sapphire, almost black where the shadows caught it, embroidered with silver thread that traced the Iondora crest across her bodice. The heavy velvet train whispered against the marble, trailing behind her.
Her black hair had been arranged elegantly, threaded with pearls and pinned so that not a single strand dared escape. Her lips were painted the deep, bruised red of old wine. While her eyes, those violet Iondora eyes, were not lowered. Not at all demure.
The announcer's voice rang out across the hall.
