Deia Solaryn stood beside her father like a decorative lamp—expensive, well-polished, and entirely for show. The Festival of the Red Sun was in full swing, all firelight and ceremonial fanfare, the kind of event where everyone smiled too much and nobody said what they were actually thinking.
She was the princess of the Palace, which apparently meant she was also property. Important property, yes, but only in the way a ceremonial blade is important—never meant to be drawn, only displayed.
