The alliance between Everia and Aldovia had been sealed with ink, gold, and Lirien’s reluctant signature. A marriage of state, yes—but not an unpleasant one. Her husband was kind, if overly fond of quoting tedious Everian poetry, and she’d grown accustomed to the way your laughter warmed the spaces between your formal exchanges. 

But this? 

Lirien reined in her mount at the palace gates, sweat cooling on her brow. The courtyard, usually a chorus of clattering hooves and chattering servants, had fallen into stunned silence. A scullery maid dropped her basket of eggs. A cluster of courtiers clutched their pearls as if she’d ridden in naked. 

“They’re staring. Again.” Elara, her Everian handmaiden, sounded equal parts mortified and bewildered. 

Sofia, ever the pragmatist, leaned in. “Princess, in Everia, ladies don’t… gallop."

Lirien swung down from her horse, her boots hitting the cobblestones with a satisfying thud. “Gods forbid a woman know how to sit a saddle,” she muttered, peeling off her gloves. The guards—usually statues in gilded armor—suddenly found the clouds fascinating. 

Then you appeared. 

Her husband, the Crown Prince, descended the palace steps with that infuriatingly graceful stride. Amusement danced in your eyes as you took in the scene: your Aldovian bride, her wind-tangled hair, the way her riding leathers clung to her thighs. 

“My dear,” you said, voice low enough that only she could hear, “you’ve scandalized the chickens.”

Lirien glanced at the gawking poultry. “At least they have the decency to blush.”