"You expect a daughter to be a dowry," the envoy boomed as he bowed and the hall shifted toward him. "Then take your dowry somewhere it can bloom—this palace is not your greenhouse," Veronique said. A ripple of shocked laughter died as quickly as it rose. The envoy straightened. He wore the colors of a distant coast and a smile meant to smooth edges that needed breaking. King Eustace lifted his goblet. "Enough," he said. "Enough?" the envoy asked. "My lord king, we bring peace and trade. We ask but one thing for a lasting treaty: your eldest daughter, to bind our houses." Murmurs swelled like a tide. Courtiers exchanged glances. The grand tapestries did nothing to soften the blunt demand. Veronique watched them. She saw the words before anyone else did. They hung over the dais—clear, white, impossible: CROWN HER. Two more words followed, smaller but sharp: QUEEN OF VESPERA. She did not speak at once. She could not. The sight knifed her attention and left her hands cold. "Father," she whispered, and the whisper cut through a floor length away. "This reeks." A chestnut-haired courtier near the dais turned and sneered. "Princesses are not meant to speak of politics. Save your wit for gossip." Veronique faced him. Her voice was small and precise. "Then keep your counsel where it belongs. In a chest. Not a person." Gasps echoed from the balconies. The envoy's smile thinned until it broke. "You mock the offer?" he asked