Nyvara’s eyes cracked open to a world that was far too bright and nowhere near quiet enough. Her mouth tasted like last night’s wine, her hair was tangled into a royal bird’s nest, and—ah, yes, there was a soft, naked thigh draped over her hip.

  She peeled back the sheet and blinked at the girl beside her. Gods, she was pretty—possibly a redhead. Or had she been blonde in candlelight?

  Nyvara yawned, leaned in to squint at the girl’s face, and, finding nothing familiar, gave up. Diplomacy had its limits, and remembering the morning after was well beyond hers.

  “Who the fuck are you again?” she said, voice raspy with sleep.

  The girl blinked up, mortified, then tried to school her face into something regal. “I—I’m Marise, Your Highness. We met at the banquet.”

  Nyvara grinned, rolled onto her back, and stretched like a satisfied panther. “Of course we did. Did you enjoy yourself?”

  Marise flushed crimson. “Yes, Princess.”

  “Good. Get yourself a robe. The maids will bring coffee in a minute, unless my father sent them all to a convent overnight.” She reached over, grabbed her crown from the bedside table, and set it crookedly on her own tangled head. “By the way—don’t steal anything. I’d have to put out a bounty, and I’m late for breakfast.”

  As Marise scrambled for dignity and discarded silk, Nyvara swung her legs off the bed and walked toward the windows, entirely unbothered by her nakedness. She flung the curtains wide, flooding the room with daylight and a scandalized gasp from the young woman behind her.

  She glanced back over her shoulder, lips quirking. “If you see my father in the hall, tell him I said: ‘Cock, cunt, and fuck you for waking me before noon.’”

  Marise managed something between a laugh and a whimper.

  By the time the girl had fled—flushed, rumpled, probably reconsidering her life choices—Nyvara was already pulling on a robe and contemplating the logistics of coffee. Her head throbbed with every heartbeat. The banquet had been interminable, the wine adequate, and the company... well. Marise had been pleasant enough.

  A knock at the door. Nyvara didn’t bother answering; her ladies-in-waiting had long since learned that knocking was a formality, not a request for permission.

  The door opened. Lady Linora entered with a tray—coffee, blessedly—and the expression of a woman who had seen this exact scene a hundred times before and had stopped judging somewhere around occurrence thirty.

  “Your Highness,” Linora said, setting the tray down with practiced efficiency. “The Chancellor’s office sent word. The Crown Council is convening within the hour.”

  Nyvara paused mid-reach for the coffee. “Again? Didn’t they just meet three days ago?”

  “Apparently Lord Thareth requested an urgent session.” Linora’s tone was carefully neutral, but her eyebrow said everything her voice didn’t.

  “Thareth.” Nyvara took a long drink of coffee, letting the bitterness cut through the wine-fog. “Let me guess. The Foher mess?”

  “The postponement request arrived yesterday evening, Your Highness. From Duchess Elarion’s council.”

  Nyvara snorted into her cup. “Of course she did. Signs a charter without reading it, gets summoned for violating the Crown Covenant, and now she wants more time to prepare her excuses.” She set the cup down, stretching again. “Well. Can’t say I blame her. If I’d fucked up that badly, I’d want a delay too.”

  Linora said nothing, which was agreement enough.

  “Suppose I should make an appearance,” Nyvara said, more to herself than to Linora. “Thareth’s probably frothing at the mouth by now. That’s always entertaining.”

  She rose, moving toward the wardrobe with the unhurried grace of someone who had never once in her life been told to hurry. Behind her, Linora was already laying out clothes—something suitable for a Crown Council session, which meant something that looked vaguely respectable while requiring minimal effort.

  “The blue?” Linora suggested.

  “The blue’s boring. The green.”

  “The green is—”

  “Exactly what the Chancellor deserves to choke on. Crown too—the real one, not the sleeping crown.”

  Twenty minutes later, Nyvara was dressed, crowned, and marginally more sober. The green gown was cut just low enough to be interesting without being scandalous—well, without being too scandalous—and the crown sat properly now, gold and sapphires catching the late morning light.

  She studied herself in the mirror. Princess Nyvara Remaris, daughter of King Raemond IV, widow of some prince whose name she’d already half-forgotten, and—if the whispers were true—one of very few potential heirs to a kingdom that might not survive long enough for the succession to matter.

  “How do I look?” she asked Linora.

  “Like you just rolled out of someone else’s bed and decided to attend a state meeting anyway, Your Highness.”

  Nyvara’s grin was sharp. “Perfect.”

  The Crown Council chamber was halfway through what sounded like a very civilized argument by the time Nyvara arrived.

  She paused in the doorway, taking in the scene with practiced efficiency. Four councillors present—a skeleton crew for a hastily called session. Lord Thareth stood near the head of the table, one hand resting on the back of what should have been the King’s chair, his posture impeccable and his voice only slightly elevated. Chancellor Covenay sat to the right, fingers steepled, expression revealing nothing. Lady Seris Galorn occupied a seat further down, watching the proceedings with the focused attention of a cat at a mousehole. And Ser Maltric Vhen, Minister of Treasury, looked like a man calculating the cost of whatever disaster was unfolding.

  The King’s chair was empty.

  Nyvara filed that away for later consideration and slipped into the chamber with enough noise to be noticed but not enough to interrupt. Thareth’s gaze flicked to her—brief acknowledgment, nothing more—before returning to his controlled dismantling of whatever argument had been happening before she arrived.

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  “—cannot in good conscience recommend granting this request,” Thareth was saying, his tone the particular brand of reasonable that meant someone was about to be eviscerated with perfect courtesy. “The charges are serious. The violation is clear. And the Duchess’s... medical circumstances, while regrettable, do not constitute grounds for indefinite postponement of justice.”

  “No one suggested indefinite postponement, Lord Thareth,” the Chancellor said mildly. “The request specifies a delay until the spring thaw. Approximately three months.”

  “Three months during which she remains in Foher, consolidating power, potentially destroying evidence—”

  “Evidence of what?” That was Maltric Vhen, his voice carrying the faint exasperation of a man who dealt in numbers, not dramatics. “The charter exists. The violation is documented. Whether we try her now or in spring, the facts don’t change.”

  “The facts may not change, Ser Vhen, but the political landscape certainly will. Three months gives her time to rally support, to spin narratives—”

  “Or to heal from a near-fatal wound and prepare a proper defense,” Seris Galorn cut in smoothly. “Which, I believe, is the stated purpose of the request.” Her gaze was sharp, assessing. “Unless the Crown intends to try a woman who can barely stand upright? That would make for... interesting optics.”

  Nyvara claimed a seat near the middle of the table with the air of a patron settling into a theater box, angling herself for the best view of the stage. This was already more entertaining than the banquet had been.

  “The optics,” Thareth said, each word measured, “are precisely the concern. The Crown cannot appear weak. Cannot appear to bend to every noble who decides constitutional law is optional and then pleads injury when called to account.”

  “Interesting phrasing,” Maltric observed. “Given that the request doesn’t actually plead anything. It cites Article Twelve of the Crown Covenant—the provision for postponement in cases of documented medical incapacity or similar extraordinary circumstances. Which, last I checked, still applies even to nobles we don’t particularly like.”

  The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.

  Thareth’s expression remained perfectly controlled, but his eyes narrowed—frustration, maybe, or the realization that this wasn’t going to be the swift condemnation he’d hoped for. “Article Twelve,” he said slowly, “is intended for cases of genuine emergency. Not tactical delays.”

  “And you have evidence this is tactical?” Covenay’s voice was still mild, but there was steel underneath now. “The woman was stabbed—multiple times, if the rumors are to be believed. Nearly died. Lost—” He paused, glanced briefly at Nyvara, then continued. “Suffered significant trauma. Her cerusician’s statement supports the medical grounds. Unless you’re suggesting the wound was self-inflicted to avoid trial?”

  Silence.

  Nyvara bit back a smile. She’d always appreciated the Chancellor’s particular brand of precision.

  Thareth shifted tactics. “I am suggesting that the severity of the constitutional violation warrants urgency. The Eastern Crown Concord exists because this kingdom nearly tore itself apart once before. If we allow—”

  “No one is allowing anything,” Seris interjected. “The question is whether we deny a legally valid request out of political expedience or personal—” She paused delicately. “—investment in the outcome.”

  Another dangerous silence.

  Thareth’s voice went very quiet. “I beg your pardon, Lady Galorn?”

  “You heard me, Lord Thareth.” Seris’s smile was pleasant, poisonous. “We’re all aware of the Orveil situation. Your daughter’s... unfortunate circumstances. I simply think it’s worth acknowledging that personal history might color one’s judgment on matters of law.”

  Nyvara almost snorted. Poor Selmine. Not the first noble girl to end up pregnant before the altar—just the first stupid enough to get caught. Stable boys, house stewards, even a few visiting scribes... half the noble heirs in this kingdom had questionable cheekbones. Of course, in Thareth’s preferred version, the entire fiasco was somehow Duchess Elarion’s fault—never mind that the only thing she and her pet mage ruined was the party, not the bride’s virtue.

  “My daughter has nothing to do with this.”

  A single, almost imperceptible twitch pulled at the corner of Thareth’s right eye. The only crack in the marble.

  “Then you won’t mind if we proceed with legal rather than emotional reasoning,” Maltric said flatly. “The Duchess’s request meets the criteria under Article Twelve. Her council has provided medical documentation. The trial can proceed in spring with all parties properly prepared.” He looked around the table. “Unless someone has an actual legal argument against postponement rather than just a preference for swift vengeance?”

  Nyvara almost laughed. She settled for reaching for the carafe of water in front of her, pouring slowly, letting the silence stretch.

  Thareth drew a careful breath. When he spoke again, his voice had regained its measured calm. “This is not about vengeance. This is about the integrity of the Crown. About precedent. If we grant this request, we set a standard—”

  “The standard,” Covenay interrupted gently, “is that we follow our own laws. Even when inconvenient. Especially when inconvenient.” He glanced at the empty chair at the head of the table. “His Majesty would expect nothing less.”

  The mention of the King hung in the air. Nyvara tracked its effect—Maltric’s dutiful nod, Seris’s sharpened gaze, the thin, bloodless press of Thareth’s lips. Only Chancellor Covenay showed nothing, his deflection a polished mirror.

  She filed that away with the rest of the morning’s curiosities.

  “The King’s expectations,” Thareth said slowly, “are that justice be served. Not delayed.”

  “Justice delayed is not justice denied when the delay is legal and necessary,” Maltric shot back. “You want to prosecute her? Fine. I’ll support that when the time comes. But denying a valid postponement request just to score political points? That’s not justice. That’s theater.”

  “Ser Vhen—”

  “He’s right.” That was Seris, her voice cutting through Thareth’s building protest. “Deny this request and you hand Foher a grievance. Grant it and you look reasonable, merciful even. The trial happens either way. But one approach makes the Crown look petty, and the other makes us look just.” She tilted her head slightly. “I know which optics I prefer.”

  Thareth looked at each of them in turn—Maltric’s set jaw, Seris’s cool assessment, Covenay’s diplomatic neutrality. Then his gaze landed on Nyvara.

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “Your Highness,” he said, voice carefully neutral. “You’ve been uncharacteristically quiet. Do you have thoughts on this matter?”

  Nyvara took a sip of water, considering. Everyone was watching her now—the Chancellor with cautious interest, Maltric with faint curiosity, Seris with something that might have been amusement. And Thareth, waiting to see if she’d be his ally or another obstacle.

  “I think,” she said slowly, setting the glass down, “that the Duchess is an idiot who signed a charter without reading it properly and now has to face consequences she richly deserves.” She paused, letting that sink in. “I also think denying a legal request for postponement because we’re impatient makes us look worse than her. At least she has the excuse of being half-dead and recently traumatized. What’s ours?”

  Maltric snorted.

  Thareth’s expression could have frozen wine.

  “The request,” Nyvara continued, “meets the legal standard. Grant it. Try her in spring when she can actually stand trial without collapsing halfway through. Justice gets served either way, and we don’t look like we’re kicking a woman while she’s down.” She leaned back in her chair. “That’s my thought, Lord Thareth. Was it useful?”

  The silence that followed had weight to it.

  Finally, Covenay cleared his throat. “Unless there are further objections, I believe we have a consensus.” He looked at Thareth. “The postponement request will be approved. The trial will proceed following the spring thaw, with a firm date to be set no later than the first of Bloomtide. All parties will be notified accordingly.”

  Thareth said nothing for a long moment. Then, with perfect courtesy that somehow felt like violence: “Of course, Chancellor. As you say.”

  “Excellent.” Covenay rose, signaling the end of the session. “I’ll have the formal response drafted today. Lord Thareth, if you’d care to review the language before it’s sent—”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Thareth’s smile was thin. “I’m sure it will be... suitably diplomatic.”

  He left without another word, his footsteps precise and unhurried.

  The others began gathering papers, speaking in low tones. Seris caught Nyvara’s eye across the table and inclined her head slightly—acknowledgment, maybe respect. Maltric looked vaguely satisfied, like a man whose accounts had finally balanced.

  And Covenay stood by the empty chair, one hand resting on its back, his gaze distant.

  Nyvara rose, adjusting her crown. She’d gotten what she came for—entertainment, information, and a reminder that politics in Velarith were exactly as exhausting as she remembered.

  But as she left the chamber, her gaze lingered on that empty chair one last time.

  Her father should have been there.

  Where the fuck was the King?