By morning, the palace had begun its slow transformation into a stage.
The marble halls no longer echoed with mere footsteps, they carried the weight of velvet trains, the hush of whispered names, the click of foreign boots, and the carefully measured tones of greetings between houses long trained in subtle warfare.
Banners were unfurled from every upper balcony, bearing the crest of visiting nobility and trusted allies. The scent of waxed wood and citrus polish hung heavy in the air.
The gates were open now, and the guests were arriving.
Beatrice watched from the upper gallery, her hands resting lightly on the balustrade as the procession moved through the front court. Carriages gleamed in the winter sun. House banners fluttered. Names were announced by royal heralds with careful pomp.
