The glow of the candle-lit chandeliers floods the opulent dining hall. Like a gilded mirage, it smooths out the cracks whispering of flaws beneath the calm, kind demeanors of the diners.

My mother sits at the head of the room's long, pristine table. My father is in one of the two slightly less extravagant chairs beside her. She smiles at him and laughs. The corners of his lips lift in return, and he brushes an invisible hair from her cheek. The courtiers smile at the sweet scene, but my mother's fake joy and father's feigned care stir no admiration in me.

Agraund rests comfortably on her other side. Around the corner from Father sits Sela. Her high cheekbones are lightly dusted with rouge, and her lips are artfully painted. Beside Sela, our brother, Ren, slides into his seat. His formal military uniform is one that I'll thankfully never have to wear; the careful art of casting far surpasses the brutality of his whack-and-bash principles.

I pass the seated Ladies of my mother's court, the army officials under my father, and the top-tier wizards commanded by Agraund. Tinkling laughter and hearty conversation glide through the air around me as I take my place around the corner from my uncle.

Agraund, straight-faced as ever, remarks, "You were almost late."

I glance over to where Ren is still settling into his seat. Not really. "Yes, my lord," I return evenly.

A serving-maid leans around me to fill my wine glass. I glance up at her, offering a quick smile. "Thank you, Alena."

She smiles back and flits away to fulfill some other duty.

Agraund demands my attention once more. "It's not polite to speak familiarly with servants when there is more dignified company in the room."

My fingers press harder than necessary into the napkin I'm unfolding. "Yes, my lord."

"Do you even know her?"

I place the napkin in my lap. "Only well enough to know her name, my lord."

"Well, then. Perhaps you should refrain from conversing with unknown help when there are more important things going on." He sighs, laying out his own napkin in his lap. "Aster, I know how you like to associate with the lower classes, but someday you're going to have to focus on reality. Your eccentricities won't help you when it comes to the world of politics."

I smooth out my napkin. "Of course, my lord. I understand."

"Good." He nods. "Now, enjoy the meal. There are a lot of important people here tonight." He smiles encouragingly.

I offer a smile back, but he's already turned his attention away from me. He laughs as the Queen mutters something to him. I follow their gazes to one of the Ladies. I can't remember her name, but I do know she has a long history of being as self-centered as she is empty-headed. The only reason she's even on the court is her family's old money. Mother can't afford to gain the bad favor of an influential line.

The Lady's ensemble seems to be what they're ridiculing. It appears as if she attempted to morph into a peacock; feather earrings dangle from her ears, feathered clips jut from her hair, and her bodice is bedecked in blue, green, and brown beads. Honestly, if it had been done with a little more grace and a little less pompous enthusiasm, it would look rather stately. As it is, she looks more like a peacock-costumed goose amidst glittering doves.

Mother could have pulled it off.

Her already swan-like neck would be the perfect dais for the large, cock-colored stones the woman is wearing, her dark-blonde hair the ideal bed for the clips. Her large brown eyes would be a flawless match for the dress' beads, and her honeyed skin optimal for the sweeps of blue and green shadow beneath the woman's brow.

The country adores her, their dear Queen Díane Jacqueline. They know her as benevolent and sweet but still firm and powerful. They never see her careful manipulation or how the kindness is merely a mask and the doting a charade. They never see her as the woman incapable of loving even her own husband.

Across the table, light catches on Sela's elegant silver choker. She chuckles softly at something Ren must have said.

Four years older than me, Sela looks remarkably like Mother and only vaguely like our father. After all, his face is all angles, strong and sharp, rather than the curving grace of Sela and the Queen.

"Good evening, Aster," Sela says, catching my gaze.

I smile politely, a pang in my chest. So formal. "Evening, Princesse."

Her lips turn up in kind, but her heart clearly isn't in it. While perhaps passable to most, I know that smile is nothing like the genuine, mischievous grins she used to flash me. "How are you?"

Only a handful of years ago, you would already know. We'd have been around each other all day.

"I'm good, thank you. And you?" I remember a dinner similar to this back when I was ten, her fourteen. Like this time, our conversation had started because I saw her chuckling at Ren. Like this time, she turned to me to speak. There the similarities end. Because, then, she relayed the witticism Ren had imparted on her, about how some piece of food on her plate looked exactly like Agraund. We'd laughed hard, enjoying ourselves much more in that moment than either of us likely will throughout this entire conversation.

I doubt there will be much, if any, genuine laughter tonight, at least from me. This kind of event is always long and dry, full of posturing and double-speak.

"Wonderful," she says. "How has your instruction been going?"

"Good, thank you. Yours?" Despite the words rolling smoothly off my tongue, I feel awkward, like this is a perversion of how our conversation should really be going.

I'm rescued from what once would have been the best conversation of the night by the peacock woman calling to Sela. "What's your opinion, Princesse?"

She turns to answer, our exchange forgotten.

An elbow almost knocks my plate; I follow it up to see my uncle's second sitting beside me. His lank, yellowing hair is pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. He sits erect with his face pinched, as if he has a stick for a spine, leaving him both ramrod and uncomfortable. "I thought Agraund would have taught you better, Prince."

My gaze snaps up to his face. He still faces forward, fork raised lightly to his lips.

"Taught me better than what, High Mage Solus?"

"Than to stare."

Heat rises in my cheeks, and I'm grateful my almond skin covers it. "I was only admiring your comportment. No one holds themselves as you, sir."

He grunts but gives a self-satisfied smile.

Relieved at avoiding a confrontation there, I return to my own food. Hopefully no one else will bother me. Dread rises in me at the idea of having to talk to any more of them; I'd rather not be repeatedly and creatively condescended, mocked, and manipulated. I'd rather not engage in any more hidden verbal sparring tonight.

I would much prefer to spend the coming hours locked away in my training room, pushing my body and mind to their limits, fighting for every inch of improvement I can get.

I have another option, I remember, than wearing myself away with practice.

The note.

It's from an academy in Draó, at least a month's travel north, that specializes in instructing magicians. They've offered me a chance to study there, and though I can't seem to keep it off my mind for long, I know my family would never agree to let me go. I want to become a more talented caster, but my place is here, not gallivanting about in foreign countries.

Mother lifts her glass. "To Morineaux!" The cheer comes back to her, but as everyone's glass lowers and the smiling and laughing and drinking continues, I sit quietly. To Morineaux, absolutely. My love, my life, my skin and blood to Morineaux.

So am I really willing to abandon my Morineaux to become the caster she needs?