[center][i]“A veil of silk may hide a sword. A kiss may ignite war.”[/i][/center]
[center][img]https://i.pinimg.com/736x/88/d1/f9/88d1f93c63344335a45b456b2e1b61ec.jpg[/img][/center]

The city of Solencia glittered beneath a sheath of midmorning mist.

From the balconies of the eastern wing of the royal palace, one could almost pretend it was beautiful. Gilded rooftops sparkled in fractured sunlight. Temple bells rang to gods long silenced. A hundred banners unfurled on ivory towers like petals of duty, stitched with the crests of noble houses and divine symbols barely understood by those who now wore them.

And nestled among those silks and secrets was House Lunevere’s embassy suite, where the wrong heir was being laced into a gown of seafoam green.

[color=#B0A3FF]"Stop fidgeting,"[/color] the seamstress hissed beneath her breath, pinning another gilded shell to his high collar. [color=#B0A3FF]"If you loosen this corset again, I swear I’ll—"[/color]

[color=#93E9BE]"You’ll what?"[/color] the boy asked dryly. His voice was low, but not masculine—not now, not with his ribs compressed, cheek dusted in gold powder, lips painted like Liraen’s priests. [color=#93E9BE]“Out me to the entire court and start a war?”[/color]

That shut her up. It always did.

The boy in the dress was [i]Eryndor Lunevere[/i], the last son of House Lunevere—the Tideland nobles who whispered to stars and bound prophecies in pearl. He was not meant for court. He was not meant for marriage. But his sisters were too young, his brothers too dead, and his house too desperate.

[i]A misunderstanding[/i], the letters had claimed. [i]A tragic clerical error.[/i]

 A rival noble house had offered a marriage alliance, mistakenly assuming the eldest Lunevere child was a daughter and House Lunevere, already spiraling toward economic ruin, had accepted.

They had written letters. Signed agreements. Set dates.

They had even whispered of blessings from the Goddess [color=#d0e0ef][i]Caelira[/i][/color]—visions of peace, dreams made manifest. But dreams and survival rarely held hands in Delicana.

So they had turned to Eryndor.

His hair had been grown out, softened, perfumed. His body wrapped and sculpted to fit gowns never meant for him. His identity—his truth—sealed behind layers of charmwork and social illusion.

He had protested, of course. But the guilt had outweighed the pride. For his siblings. For the name. For a future with fewer coffins and fewer debts.

[color=#45818e]“Do not speak unless addressed directly,”[/color] his steward warned from behind a velvet curtain. [color=#45818e]“Smile modestly. Speak softly. They will want you to be quiet and compliant—be both.”[/color]

Eryndor didn’t respond. Instead, he stood as the final pin was placed and turned toward the mirror.

He looked like a ghost of a goddess. Like a bride carved from salt and sorrow. He did not look like himself, but that was the point.

Outside the embassy door, the royal guards announced the arrival of the visiting noble delegation—the one he was to be promised to. Treaties would be signed. Wealth preserved. Faces smiled. And then, in a few weeks—if the gods were kind and the lies held—he would fake his death and vanish into myth.

That was the plan. But as the gilded doors opened, and the son of the rival house stepped into the room their eyes met, and something unplanned cracked in Eryndor’s resolve—

Eryndor began to wonder if his death would be the easiest part.

[color=#63e8a6][i]"For the good of the House. For the good of the realm. [b]For the survival of our name.[/b]"[/i][/color] He reminded himself, the gloved fingers of his hands gathering a bunch of the silken fabric of his dress.
[@SilverPaw]