Had she expected to be invited into the solar with Valdr's Lords? Perhaps. She had no mind for politics or war but she felt foolish sitting on the dais alone. The eyes that glanced her way were a mix of confusion and apathy.

They had little love for Zybarian's here. She'd sensed that the moment she set foot in this realm and they had not warmed to her upon announcement of her and Valdr's marriage. They viewed this marriage much as Valdr did. As a war pact and nothing more.

She'd hoped for something which she now knew to be almost impossible. She'd hoped that in time he could grow to care for her, that once she announced she carried his heir, he would look at her as something precious and important. Not just to him but to his realm. But how was any of that possible when he barely looked at her? When he had not come to her chamber once since they had returned from Alathy.

In her braver moments, she'd thought of going to him. Of entering his chamber and slipping into his bed, but the thought of finding him there with a mistress or courtier was too awful to bear. Like claws in her heart. She knew that kings took mistresses of course, but she also knew that kings must bear heirs to ensure their supremacy and it was on this she hung her hopes.  It would also help ensure her survival here. For she knew just how easily the wind changed in war, and it would not be long before the next change, of this she was certain.

But if she carried Valdr's child then he would not send her from him. Could not send her from him.  With her father gone, and her brother's fate as yet unknown, she expected each moment here to be her last. Expected each time her chamber door opened it was the Nati come to escort her to a ship and send her home. Unwanted. Purposeless now that she was no longer the daughter of a king. And so as she prayed for Valdr to visit her, she prayed too for Zhoron's victory.

She clung fervently to the hope that the night of their wedding union would bear something fruitful inside her. Though her knowledge of such relations was embarrassingly meagre, she was certain what they'd done could result in a child. She considered - more than once - to ask Fara, but nerves and fear of humiliation had prevented her from doing so.  In any case, she could only imagine that Fara would have no desire to discuss her brother's intimate relations. She knew what she must do, and that was to make him lie with her again.

She glanced now at the door through which Valdr, his lords, and his sister had disappeared some time ago.  She'd watched as his serious-faced Commandant arrived at his side and leaned close to whisper something which had caused Valdr's face to change completely. Loose and free one moment, tight and serious the next. Then, without a glance in Dura's direction, he'd risen from his seat and charged from the room calling for his lords to follow.

Of course, Fara had been invited into the council. For it seemed there was nowhere she was not permitted to go. Nowhere Valdr would shut Fara out of. But then, she had returned to him from the dead. He had mourned her and grieved her and she had come home to him alive and well. She could bear little grudge against his joy at having his sister beside him once more.

Also, Fara had been a more true friend to her than she could ever have imagined. She was warm and kind and nothing at all like the version of her Dura had conjured in her mind. Their daily walks through Prissia had come to be Dura's favourite part of the day. She listened diligently as Fara explained how the newer parts of the great glass palace had been constructed. Of how the rarest metal had been mined on the Isles of Dacian and shipped to the mainland, of how it was heated and stretched and flattened before being transported on huge landships pulled by a hundred horses. The golden beams which held the palace up had been purchased at unimaginable cost from Azura during her grandfather's reign, and to imagine its worth now was impossible. It was priceless.

It was fascinating to Dura, though she noticed that Fara spoke of Prissia in a detached way; as though she had not lived and grown here, but had learned of its history through books and teachings she had been forced to read. Still, they talked about many things. Of Azura, and of Zybar. Fara had even spoken to her of Leoth once, her voice sounding wistful and sad as she did. As though it were a painful memory. She spoke of her sister Cassine in much the same way.

You remind me of her, she'd told Dura two days ago. You look at the world the way she did, as though it were a friend, not an enemy. Though it has done nothing but hurt you. 

She had not known what to reply to that. So she said nothing.

The great hall she sat in now was of a similar size to Azura's great throne room. The night sky with stars aglow glittered through the glass above. Three of the four walls were also made entirely of glass, Prissia's sumptuous gardens home to every colour of winter flower visible on all sides. Its construction would mean the room would be stifling in summer but the glass walls had been made so that they could be pulled wide open, inviting the gardens inside.

She tried to look as though she was enjoying the dancing before her, the music playing above her, but it was difficult not to feel forgotten. 

She was used to being forgotten. Used to being an afterthought to her father, brother, Galyn too. So she felt it now as though it were a familiar thing, a friend almost. However, here with the disapproving eyes of the Calatian court upon her, she felt small. Unworthy and unwanted. That too was familiar. As always, it was the gazes of the women she felt most keenly. Resentment and malice burned from them. Reminding her that she wasn't enough. Not beautiful enough. Not strong enough. Not powerful enough. But she noticed something new in some of their gazes too. Envy. 

Suddenly she felt a presence beside her and turned to find a woman wearing a dark green gown bending low into a curtsey. Daegar was upon her an instant later, a look of warning in his eye as though she held a dagger in her hand, not a wine cup.

The woman glanced at him, her eyes skimming over his wide shoulders and down the Zybarian tribal ink of his arms. Dura saw appreciation in her eyes as she blinked up at her large guard flirtatiously. Daegar did not return the sentiment, a scowl set firmly on his face.

"Heel, Zybarian, I mean the princess no harm," the woman purred. 

Daegar's scowl deepened. "Queen," he huffed. "You address your queen."

The woman glanced at Dura, her mouth quirking down at one side before she affected a look of innocence. "Of course, your majesty. My mistake. I had thought until the coronation..."

"Have you a purpose with the queen, woman?"

Dura almost laughed, for only Daegar would care so little for the thoughts or feelings of some polished Calatian noble. The woman's look turned incensed, eyes darkening. As she stammered for a response, painted mouth gaping like a fish, Dura decided to take pity.

"You may leave us, Daegar," she said gently. Daegar shot her a look, his scowl smoothing slightly before he bowed his head and stepped back into the corner behind the dais where he'd stood her sentry for the entire feast. Unlike the rest, his eyes had been a comfort on her.

To the woman, Dura gestured to the seat to her left. It had belonged to Lord Hanrik Viscal. She'd made a task of learning each of Valdr's lords' names on first introduction, as well as their barony.  She'd made the same task of remembering their wives and children's names too, as well as any information they gave her which may prove useful. She was certain they shared far more with her than they realised.

The woman held her gown and stepped up onto the dais and slid into the seat next to her.  Dura waited for her to introduce herself.

"I'm honoured to have your company, your grace," the woman said, turning slightly in her chair to study Dura. "And how, may I ask, are you finding Prissia?" Her eyes were sharp as claws, a glittering green that matched her gown. Her pale skin glittered with a golden sheen and her eyes were almost catlike in shape. They'd been accentuated by gold paint on the upper lids, the same colouring brushed over her lips. She was beautiful.

"It already feels like home," Dura said, hoping it sounded genuine.  She suddenly regretted asking the woman to sit, for her gaze was too heavy, too pointed. It did mean she no longer sat alone, she supposed. She reached out to pluck a grape from the plate in front of her and bit half of it.

"I will soon be as you are," the woman sighed. "Married to a man who is all but a stranger to me. Sent to make a home where people will look at me with doubt and mistrust."

Dura turned her head to look at the woman. "I am sure you will please your husband greatly." She could not imagine any man would be disappointed in being wed to such a beauty.

"And what if he does not please me?" She asked Dura.

She had not an answer for that, though the point, she supposed, was valid. "Is he kind, at least?"

The woman threw her head back and laughed. "What use have I for kind?"

"Handsome?"

"He is thought by many to be, yes."

"But you do not think so?"

The woman gave her a conspiratorial look and leaned closer. She smelled of something dark and heady. "Shall I tell you a secret, your grace?" Dura nodded and the woman smiled. Dangerous and seductive. "It is that I have already given my heart and soul - and indeed, my body - to another. Gods, how I miss the feel of his body inside mine, his mouth on mine, even the cruel whip of his tongue. It shall be the memory of him that I'll think of when I spread my legs for my husband."

Dura's cheeks warmed. A strange stirring low in her body. How freely this woman admitted such things. Were acts such as bodily union not venerated here? For a moment she had the ridiculous notion of speaking to this woman about how she might entice Valdr to her bed before she dismissed it. But a strange kind of envy rose in her. At the freedom this woman enjoyed. At the loose way she spoke of things Dura wanted so desperately for herself.

"Where is he now?" Dura asked, mesmerised. "The man to whom you gave everything?" She imagined him suffering some tragic demise, some hero's death. This woman broken and wailing as news of it reached her.

The woman sat back in her seat and cast her gaze around the hall. Then she sighed. "He was incapable of returning my devotion, you see. For his heart had always belonged to another. "

This, to Dura, seemed even more tragic. She felt tears prick at her eyes. "I'm sorry."

The woman looked at her in surprise. Then her expression smoothed. "Oh, but it is I who should apologise to you, your grace. For you too will befall the same fate."

Dura blinked, bewildered. "I do not... understand."

The woman smiled, cold and deadly. Her voice was almost a whisper when she spoke. "He will never love you, little girl. Yet he will demand everything. Your heart, your soul, your body, your loyalty, your honour. He will demand everything from you and you will give it. And then one day, when he has taken everything, and you are left with nothing, he shall cast you aside. Because you are nothing. But mainly, because you are not her. "

Dura gasped, her breath cold as ice in her throat. "Who.. who are you?"

The woman looked relaxed, unmoved, and more than pleased by Dura's reaction to her words. "I was the king's favourite; Delphine of Hirath, your grace. Now? Now I am nothing."

Trembling, Dura pushed to her feet, tears clouding her vision. Uncaring of how many eyes watched, she rushed from the dais.

"Welcome to Prissia," Delphine of Hirath called after her.

Dura didn't falter, didn't stop, she almost ran. Far away from the woman with the cold smile and the colder augury, the familiar sound of Daegar's footsteps rushing after her.