Chapter One: The Ashen Invitation

On the seventh day of winter rain, a gilt invitation arrived at the old bell tower. The palace courier held it between two fingers as if it were a bone fished from a gutter. He did not cross the threshold. He tossed it onto the wet steps instead. “Her Majesty is holding an Ashen Banquet to pray for the king. Every person of royal blood must attend.” His gaze traveled over Lain’s faded coat. “That includes you, Your Highness.” The title landed like a quiet slap. Lain waited until the carriage had gone before picking up the letter. Its wax bore the queen’s three-winged red dragon, but a hair-thin silver line marked one edge. It belonged to Marquis Mordred, master of royal ceremony—the man who arranged seating plans and funerals.