The palace air was heavier this morning.
Not in weight, but in tension—sharp, subtle, threaded through the corridors like a scent only the politically aware could smell. Priscilla Lysandra stood by the arched window of her private chamber, the soft light of early afternoon glinting off her shoulder brooch, casting a long shadow across the scrolls laid before her.
Idena entered, as she always did—quiet, efficient, unbothered by the disrepair of the western wing where her mistress lived. But today, her steps were brisker. Intentional.
"They've made the announcement," Idena said, coming to a calm stop beside the desk. "Today is the final deadline for sponsor applications."
Priscilla's gaze did not shift from the city skyline beyond the window. But the slight tension in her shoulder eased—not from comfort, but from recognition. She had expected this.
"All five candidates?" she asked.
