The fire had long died out, but its heat lingered in Princess Ariana's chambers. The scent of scorched velvet hung heavily in the air, mingling with the perfume of wild roses that spilled from a shattered vase. A fine porcelain mirror lay cracked across the floor, reflecting the flicker of candlelight and Ariana's flushed, furious face.
Ariana paced her chambers, the hem of her gown sweeping across the marble tiles like the tail of a restless predator.
Her golden slippers crushed shards of broken glass, her silk gown tangled around her ankles as her rage threatened to consume her.
Her hands were still trembling—not from fear, but from fury and disbelief. Magic. Princess Valerie had magic.
She stopped by the window, staring out at the distant horizon.
She needs to do something about
