The sun is a pale, watery coin over the serrated peaks of Aurelin, catching the dew on the side gate’s rusted latch. Teodora Vask does not wait for the guard to find his tongue; she simply holds out the heavy vellum bride-list, her ink-pot balanced precariously on the stone lip of the pump. With a flick of her wrist, she draws a sharp, dark line through her own name. Beneath it, in a hand steady enough to shame a court scribe, she writes Refused.
'Give that to the Prince’s steward,' she says, her voice as crisp as the spring air. She ignores the guard’s slack-jawed stare, her fingers brushing the dog-eared receipt book at her belt for comfort. The silk of her buttercream gown drags through the damp straw of the yard, a ruinous waste of Karavest’s finest weaving. She does not care. She has spent twenty-two years as an afterthought, and she will not be the eleventh woman to wait for a cursed man’s nod. 'I am not here for a crown. Tell me, where is the kennel master?'
The guard points a trembling finger toward the low stone archway. A sharp whistle pierces the morning quiet, followed by the rhythmic thud of a tail against wood. The heavy iron gate to the kennels begins to swing outward, revealing the man leaning against the post.
