"I will represent the crown," Elowen said at last, drawing herself up with undeniable majesty. She cast a brief, thoughtful look at Mikhailis, then returned her gaze to the map. "Mikhailis and I will attend the banquet."
Her final words hovered in the hush that followed, like an edict set into stone. In that mont, the hush of the chamber and the reverent colors flooding through the windows lent weight to her statent, making it feel almost historic. Mikhailis caught the slight flicker of relief—or was it regret?—in Estella's eyes, but in an instant, her face was composed again. No one argued the decision; it was clear that the queen had taken all angles into account.
Estella placed her hand delicately over her chest, posture impeccable. The subtle rustle of her garnts was nearly lost beneath the quiet hum of the conversation-filled chamber. "Then I will represent the brand," she declared, her voice carrying a cool conviction that seed to reverberate off the high-vaulted ceilings. Her gaze swept the table, taking in each face with a mix of determination and pride. If there was any doubt in her mind about her ability to helm this new venture, it did not show.
She turned to Rhea, a tall woman with warm brown eyes and a bearing that hinted at military discipline lurking beneath her poised exterior. Rhea gave a confident nod in response, though a faint tension lingered around her shoulders as though she were still growing accustod to the ornate surroundings. The thick embroidered drapes of the estate's private rooms, the sparkling chandeliers overhead—everything exuded an aura of opulence that contrasted her more straightforward style.
"And I'll have two Silvarion court ladies assist," Estella continued, her words thoughtful yet decisive. "They'll act as ambassadors."
At this, Rhea's gaze flicked briefly to Mikhailis, almost as if asking for a silent second opinion. He responded with a subtle inclination of his head. He trusted Estella's instincts; her razor-sharp mind had navigated countless political nuances before, albeit usually in realms far less glamorous than costics. This new path felt fresh and exhilarating, but Mikhailis had no doubts that Estella would orchestrate the showcase elegantly. She was, after all, adept at reading people's desires—even ones they didn't yet know they had.
Elowen leaned back in her seat, the ornately carved wooden chair supporting her with regal grace. She wore a faint, contemplative smile as she regarded Estella, her golden eyes reflecting the daylight streaming through the grand windows. "They will not rely sell blush," she said, tone tinged with both caution and encouragent. "They will carry the dignity of this kingdom's future economy."
For a beat, no one spoke. The weight of Elowen's words rested on the air, underscoring the significance of this venture. In that mont, Mikhailis felt a flicker of pride stir in his chest. What had begun as a whimsical creative project—a little side experint with Rodion's help—was now blossoming into sothing that could influence trade routes, alliances, and cultural exchanges. For a kingdom built on alchemical prowess and magical synergy, an innovative costic line could be the unexpected key to forging new diplomatic ties—or further solidifying existing ones.
Estella, evidently sharing so part of that sa realization, offered a deep bow. "And they will look damn good doing it."
Her assurance drew a faint smile from Elowen and a soft exhale from Mikhailis, who could feel the tension in the room lting into a united sense of purpose. Indeed, this was more than just vanity or comrce; it was an opportunity to push the boundaries of arcane artistry. From the corner of his eye, Mikhailis caught a glimpse of Rodion's faint spectral glow, as though the AI presence were silently approving of the montum they had gathered.
Across the room, an impromptu flurry of activity was already underway. Rhea was standing before a tall, silver-frad mirror that leaned against the far wall—one that had been brought in specifically for the purpose of final fittings and costic demonstrations. The mirrored surface caught and refracted the golden sunlight pouring in from the windows, causing the entire reflection to shimr.
Rhea herself wore a trial gown that, at first glance, seed a step outside her comfort zone. It was a soft violet shimr piece, embroidered with delicate silver vine accents that curled around her waist and across her shoulders. Every subtle movent caused the threads to catch the light, giving the illusion of living vines shimring under moonlight. Though the design was captivating, it was clear from Rhea's rigid posture that she felt sowhat awkward in such finery. Her posture was nearly at attention—like a guard standing for inspection.
Rodion's ever-present, sardonic voice humd through Mikhailis's consciousness:
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