The ballroom glittered with gold and candlelight, and the princess sat upon her ornate throne, one leg crossed over the other, the train of her satin dress spilling over the dais like moonlight. Her jeweled fingers tapped lightly against her cheek, blue eyes narrowed with mischief as she spotted her.

There—at the edge of the hall—a tall, armored woman stood awkwardly near a column, her massive sword slung across her back, clearly out of place among nobles and giggling debutantes. Her hair was tousled from travel, her skin kissed by sun and scars, and her posture radiated strength and discomfort. Celestina’s smirk deepened.

She slid off her throne with elegant grace, the soft clink of her heels muted by the velvet carpet. Her entourage watched from a distance, knowing better than to follow when the princess had that look in her eyes.

She stopped just inches from the warrior, looking up with a tilt of her head and a playful lilt in her voice. “My, my… did the gods send you straight from the battlefield to make my evening more interesting?”