“Etiquette insists upon tradition. To break with what is time-honored and true would be to disdain one’s own imperial reflection.”

  — Dane Filguard II, Royal Tutor to Prince Talose Ozewrath; author of The Etiquette of Empire

  King Ailbert Faulk, ruler of Iden and father of two, sat with a worried expression, his eyes resting on his youngest daughter, Thera.

  She was utterly obsessed with the dreadfully standoffish knight—Biaun Greyblood.

  It wasn’t that he disapproved of the man. Quite the contrary. A union between House Faulk and House Greyblood would be politically powerful, a consolidation of land, honor, and old bloodlines. But Biaun was no ordinary noble. He was reclusive, unpredictable, and—most troubling of all—he showed very little enthusiasm for Thera.

  Ailbert wished now he’d never told her about the tentative marriage pact that had once been struck between their two families.

  He sighed, recalling last year’s ball. Thera had practically dragged the wolfish-looking creature onto the dance floor, undauntedly forcing him through not one but two waltzes. Then, in her usual forthright way, she had mentioned her desire to marry.

  The color had drained from the knight’s face. Ailbert remembered it clearly. Biaun had made a series of abrupt, graceless excuses—and then vanished from the festivities altogether.

  Reaching for his wife Caroline’s hand, Ailbert gave it a gentle squeeze, seeking comfort. Thera was eighteen now, no longer a child. He could only hope that perhaps—just perhaps—Biaun might finally begin to see her as the woman she had become, not the girl he remembered.

  “Mother, look!” Thera suddenly exclaimed.

  “There he is! Doesn’t he look just absolutely rugged?”

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  She pointed to the top of the grand staircase descending into the ballroom.

  At the end of her reach stood the knight in question: tall, broad-shouldered, his manner sharp as flint.

  Despite his tailored formal wear and clearly meticulous grooming, Biaun Greyblood looked like a caged wolf amidst a den of foxes. His discomfort was palpable, a visible weight behind his steady eyes.

  To Caroline Faulk—Queen of Iden and Thera’s mother—the image was anything but romantic. No matter how hard she tried, she simply could not see Biaun Greyblood as handsome.

  She didn’t understand. Why, out of all the eligible bachelors in the empire—handsome young barons with reputations for kindness and generosity—had Thera set her heart so fully on him?

  The Obsidian Empire was not in short supply of better prospects.

  And yet… there her daughter sat. Blushing. Glowing. Head over heels for this stern-faced oddity among the noble elite.

  Managing a weak smile for her daughter’s sake, Queen Caroline nodded once and gripped her husband’s hand more tightly than she realized.

  “Yes, Thera,” she said gently, “he does look rather stunning tonight, doesn’t he?”

  The words passed her lips with practiced ease, but her thoughts were far from agreement.

  You can dress a wolf in sheepskin… she mused, raising a skeptical eyebrow as she studied the man her daughter could not seem to forget.

  “Mother, I’m going to greet him,” Thera said suddenly. “Would you come with me? Please? So I don’t feel so awkward?”

  Before her mother could answer, the young woman twisted in her seat, anxiously fussing with her gown.

  “Oh, how do I look? I should’ve worn the emerald dress instead—this one makes me look too pale, doesn’t it?”

  “Please, Thera,” Ailbert said in the most noncommittal tone he could muster. “Be calm. Sit down. You look positively beautiful.”

  The Idenian king gave his daughter a gentle smile, though his heart was less at ease than his words suggested.

  He had to admit, though—she was stunning. With her thick, dark hair cascading past her shoulders and those soulful brown eyes watching the ballroom wistfully, it was hard for him to believe that Biaun Greyblood could truly be immune to her charms. Not again. Not after all this time.

  “You’ll have plenty of time to greet Lord Greyblood,” he said. “For now, just try to enjoy the entertainment.”

  He offered her a fatherly wink and gestured toward the inner floor, where jugglers, fire-breathers, and wandering bards kept the guests dazzled and distracted.

  Reluctantly, Thera sat again. Disappointed, but not defeated.

  Her gaze drifted back to the man of the hour, and she contented herself—for now—with simply watching.

  She followed every step of his measured approach toward the emperor’s table, her expression full of longing.

  To her, Biaun Greyblood moved like a storm held barely in check. So calm. So unreadable. So impossibly distant.