As we rejoined the whirlwind of friends and family, Mara waved a jam-stained treaty triumphantly, the twins staged a mock duel with croissants, and Riven shouted, "Victory for snack diplomacy!" I laughed, hope threading through my nerves. For a moment, the hall felt like the safest place in the world, a ridiculous island of peace afloat on a stormy sea.
But in the kingdom of my parents, peace was never still for long.
The air in the palace thickened with the coming storm diplomats gathering in hushed clusters, servants hurrying with urgent messages, distant bells chiming as if the city itself was holding its breath. Somewhere, a magical mirror replayed a loop of my speech from the council, helpfully captioned with dramatic headlines and thanks to Riven's intervention a string of inventive pastry metaphors that no one had asked for.
