Maerilee
The next morning, I sit straight-backed in my chair, positioned on the dais next to my mother and father. The throne room feels colder than usual, though that has more to do with the political atmosphere than the physical temperature.
The sun is streaming through the tall windows, casting the room in golden light, but the tension in the room is palpable. My fingers rest on my lap, carefully clasped to avoid betraying any of the unease building in my chest. I’m supposed to be calm, poised. Queenly, as my mother would say.
At my side mother radiates composure. Father sits on her other side, his expression one of polite anticipation, though I know him well enough to see the glint of amusement in his eyes. The situation isn’t lost on him, though he’d never show it openly. He wouldn
