The Glass Throne

The regent smiled through the pain, as she had been taught to since before she could walk. It was a skill more valuable than the crown itself — the crown, at least, could be stolen. The smile could only be surrendered. Behind the dais, out of the light, her physician pressed a fresh cloth to the wound beneath her sleeve and said nothing, because he had learned, over eleven years, exactly how much silence she required.

The envoy from Kastimir arrived at noon, which was itself an insult — noon light left nowhere for a face to hide its intentions. He bowed with the precision of a man who had rehearsed the exact angle in a mirror, and when he rose, he was already smiling back at her, tooth for tooth. "Your Grace," he said, "I bring peace." "You bring a peace," the regent corrected. "There is a difference, and I suspect you know it better than I do."