30
I stand outside the main doors to the Ryder mansion. Since tonight is the farewell ball, I’m wearing my royal formals: crown, tunic, boots, the works. Trumpets sound. The herald, a stooped and wary fellow named Woodrow, announces me.
“His Royal Highness, the High Prince Lincoln Vidar Osric Aquilus.”
That’s my cue. I march inside the main doors and enter the mansion’s reception. It’s a tall and round space that’s all fancy woodwork and marble floors. My pulse speeds. Everywhere I look, there are thrax. I quickly scan the faces, my nerves on edge.
None of these folks are Myla Lewis.
It’s disappointing, but perhaps she’s in the ballroom proper. I march about the space, greeting different nobles and searching for my girl.
Still, no sign of her.
Adair approaches. “Don’t I look pretty?
