I tore the tent fabric back, the movement sharp and entirely devoid of the grace a royal was supposed to possess. The tent was instantly flooded with the sickly, flickering golden-purple light of the Queen’s throne room projection. Outside, the camp was shrouded in the dense, oppressive heat of the Southern borderlands, but inside, the air felt ionized and thin, smelling faintly of ozone and ancient dust.
The Queen sat motionless on the projection, her form hovering over the heavy oak map table. She didn't look up immediately, her gaze fixed on the distance as if she were staring through the very fabric of the tent.
"You have a habit of eavesdropping at the most inconvenient times, Ivy," she said, her voice dry, devoid of warmth.
I leaned against the tent pole, letting out a sharp, mock
