The diplomatic convoy moved like a silver snake across the countryside, cutting through the Empire's late afternoon haze. Armored vehicles and glittering black cars glided across the winding roads, protected by imperial banners and a discreet, heavily armed escort.
Elliot Claymore lounged in the back seat of his personal car, a glass of chilled wine in hand. The interior was fitted with the finest—deep violet leather, polished wood trim, small enchanted fans humming quietly in the corners. He had demanded luxury, and luxury had been granted.
Across from him sat Princess Anya, or what remained of her.
She stared out the window, unblinking, her posture rigid, her fingers knotted in her lap. Her hair was still styled, her dress pristine, and her face painted to the standards expected of a future Countess—but her spirit had hollowed out.
