Five Days Later.
The West Wing smelled of lavender, hot iron, and high-stakes anxiety.
Today was the Grand Fitting. The dress—the armor Ellia would wear to face the Empire—had arrived.
To support her through this ordeal, Lady Ellia had exercised her new authority to invite guests. Not stuffy nobles or gossiping duchesses, but her Pack.
Luna sat on a velvet stool, holding a basket of calming muffins.
Clover sat on the floor, clutching her Safety Rock and staring wide-eyed at the chandeliers.
"It is very shiny here," Clover whispered to me. "Is the ceiling made of diamonds?"
"Crystal," I whispered back, adjusting my apron. "But don't tell Rurik, or he'll try to eat it."
Grand Duke Bastion stood by the window, looking nervous. He was currently pacing back and forth, muttering about hem lengths and political implications of lace.
