Allissa
We dressed for war more calmly than we dressed for parties.
By sunset, our chambers had become a staging ground. My gown, silver over deep blue, the colors of both my bloodlines, waited on its form while two attendants fought a losing campaign against my hair. Darren stood at the mirror in his formal black suit, crown set, the moon cufflinks his daughter had selected catching the light, looking every inch the king and muttering about receiving lines like a man being sent to the gallows. Across the hall, a battle of another kind raged: Mira had rejected three gowns, accepted the fourth because it had become available to chew, while Soren submitted to his tiny formal coat with the long-suffering air of a soldier.
And in the middle of everything, supervising all of it, marched Lyra
