“… ask her again. I don’t think she’s listening,” Zira said from where she and Fiera stood.
“Yullia?” Fiera repeated herself.
Vi jerked. “Yes? Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize, all this bores me to tears, too.” Zira collapsed into a chair, her long legs kicking out and falling limply over the armrest.
“It’s not that bad,” Fiera mumbled. “Yullia, I was wondering what you thought of the dress color. Of course, silver or red would be traditional Western colors, but white or gold would be more fitting from an Imperial standpoint.”
Vi walked over to the table, looking at the swatches of fabrics the royal tailors had sent for Fiera to review. The whole, cluttered mess represented what Vi had always expected of a royal wedding—a political headache where one misstep could be the difference between a smooth ascension and a long-term nightmare.
“If I’m honest, I think the white and gold is stunning.” Fiera lifted a scrap of fabric covered in layers of golden petals. In the light, it sparked almost like flames. She layered it atop pure white silk, humming. “Yet I worry it will ruffle a few feathers in the Western Court if I don’t show anything of home.”
“The Western Court is a relic now and they need to get over themselves,” Zira muttered, tipping her head back. If Vi had to bet, she would guess the woman found the toils of war easier to bear than wedding preparations.
“Even if Tiberus has formally disbanded the Crimson Court, they are still influential families in this land. And he also invited most of the members to be a part of the Southern Court whenever they choose to attend.”
“And how often do you think they’ll head south?” Zira asked dryly.
“That’s not up to me.” Fiera’s usually composed tone slipped to the edge of annoyance, prompting Zira to stare out the window as Vi had been. “Anyway, Yullia, what do you think?”
Vi took the fabrics from Fiera’s hands, feeling the sumptuous textiles between the pads of her fingers. Her clothes had once solely been made from cloth like this. Now, Vi felt as though she shouldn’t be touching them. She returned them to the table after only a few seconds.
“I’m inclined to agree with you—all white and gold could spell disaster. The nobility of the West finally seem to be settling with this idea, and you’ve ensured Mhashan you will still rule as their princess while being a Solaris.”
“She should wear what she wants,” Zira insisted. “It’s her wedding.”
“It’s not though,” Vi said before Fiera could get a word in. “She is a symbol first and everything here—” Vi swept her arm over the table “—conveys a message about what that symbol stands for.”
Zira blinked blankly at Vi. Her mouth opened, closed, and she looked away again. Vi turned back to Fiera only to be met with a strange expression.
“I hope I didn’t overstep.” Vi bowed her head.
“No, you stole the words from my mouth,” Fiera said brightly, patting her shoulder. “You really are a natural at the ways of diplomacy.” Vi snorted at that. “Now, my astute friend, tell me what color my dress will be.”
“How about a compromise? Wear gold on white for your dress. But then your jewelry could be silver and red.”
“Yes, a silver crown inlaid with Western rubies.” Fiera’s expression lit up at the idea.
A silver crown. The thought drifted through Vi’s mind on a memory. Her mother had held her once as she’d fallen asleep, indulging all of Vi’s then girlish curiosities on the details of her wedding to her father. She had worn a silver crown…
“I think a silver crown would be beautiful,” Vi said in a tone softened with nostalgia.
“It’s settled, then!” Fiera clapped her hands together. “I love it.”
“Excellent.” Zira pushed herself away from her chair. “Is that all we had for today?”
“For now.” Fiera placed a hand on her stomach. “I’m starving.”
“After all the breakfast you ate?” Zira gave her a startled look. “I wouldn’t eat for a month if I cleaned my plate like that.”
“Planning takes a lot of energy!” Fiera gave a laugh and started for the door alongside Zira.
Or she was already eating for two. Fiera had given birth to Aldrik in all-too-short a time after the wedding in Vi’s history. Just long enough that no one questioned her father’s legitimacy, especially since the Emperor had always acknowledged him as his son.
If she was pregnant, that meant they were headed along the same path as Vi’s world. Not that she could’ve expected it to have changed; she hadn’t done much to shift any fated events.
“Yullia, are you coming?” Fiera asked, pausing to glance over her shoulder.
