It was the Flameball Day.
Beyond the Duchy's frost-laced windows, time had splintered into a hundred frantic rituals. The servants hurried, passing silver trays between halls. Florists hauled flowers to be braided into garlands. Ladders creaked as chandeliers were adjusted. Everything had to be perfect.
At the center of it all, Lady Elyria Montclair stood with a hawk's calmness. The matron of the Ashenholt Duchy, she could paralyze an entire staff with the arch of one brow. Two stewards flanked her, tight-lipped and alert, clutching their ledgers like shields.
She inspected the details like a general reviewing a battlefield—checking table runners, wall hangings, the position of every flower arrangement. "Who placed hyacinth there?"
A young florist froze, halfway up a ladder. "M-My lady, I.."
"You wished to hang a flower sacred to the dead above the hearth where my son's honor is to be announced?"
The girl went pale.
