“The accused shall state her name!” hollered the court crier, making several of the more timid members of the court startle and then titter beneath their fans.

“My name is Yar-ashnavar,” she said in a heavily accented voice that betrayed no fear at her situation. During her entire walk and as she stood before the most powerful man in the realm, her chin remained steady, her gaze levelled on the dais rather than her feet. It didn’t help that she hadn’t addressed the king by his proper title.

Father isn’t going to like that. Not one bit.

“May I address the accused, Father?” Tomas asked, hoping a bit of early intervention could help keep things civil.

The king seemed to consider, but then flicked his fingers outward. “As you wish.”

Tomas nodded and then met the woman’s eyes. There was a challenge in that dark stare, one that might’ve struck him with fear if he’d met her in a dark alley and not within his domain with her in chains. “You hail from Stormeye, do you not?” he asked.

“If you know this, why do you ask?”

There were several gasps from the audience at the woman’s lack of respect for her future sovereign, an audacity exacerbated by the insanity of staring him in the eyes as she spoke. Tomas ignored them. In many ways, he’d rather cut through all the time-wasting customs and traditions to get to the damn point. But not today. “Not for myself, for them,” he said, waving a hand over the audience. “To remind them that though we all exist within the bounds of the same kingdom, and thus, must be loyal to Finfallian law and the monarchy, that we have very different upbringings. Though I’ve never visited your lands, it is said the Wastelands rivals the harshest environments to survive in all the world.”

Her lip curled up slightly. “It is true. The lands of my people are not for the weak.” Finally, she glanced in the direction of the galley. Next to her formidable, muscled form, the soft bodies of the lords and ladies wearing their frilly, colorful apparel looked, well, weak. “But my people have survived long before the northerners reached our shores, long before the first Blood Tide swept over our lands, long before the goddess abandoned us to fend for ourselves.”

Her words, particularly her mention of the Blood Tides, started a murmur running through the crowd which swiftly became an uproar. “The Blood Tides are a filthy lie!” came one cry. “Heathen!” came another. More voices joined the fray, hurling insults and curses unbefitting the titles of those doing the hurling.

“Silence,” the king said. Sentences hung unfinished in the quiet that followed. “The accused is entitled to speak. Continue your questioning, Crown Prince.”

Tomas nodded, for once thankful for his father’s ability to silence a crowd. “The Wastelands is suffering from a drought, is it not?”