It is a truth universally unacknowledged by etiquette tutors that a formal state dinner can feel exactly like walking into a dragon's mouth except the dragon, in this case, is a long, gleaming banquet table laden with potential diplomatic explosives. I stood at the threshold of the lantern-strung terrace, my newly un-jammed hair pinned in wobbly braids, a speech tucked somewhere between my ribs and my racing heart.
Inside, everything glittered too brightly. The setting sun spilled gold across crystal goblets; chandeliers dangled from spell-wrought branches overhead, enchanted wax dripping upward instead of down. Dozens of faces noble, rebellious, or simply hungry turned toward me with expressions ranging from curiosity to open apprehension. Sable's delegation filed in with the silence of trained shadows, while my own court rustled like restless parchment.
