The double doors leading to the audience hall have never seemed so massive. Noise filters through them—the buzz of conversation, a lively band of vihuelas, the click of heeled boots on tile. Nearly a thousand people are gathered on the other side of those doors, all come to watch my adoption ceremony.

The seneschal stands ready to open them, flanked by two palace guards armed with long ceremonial spears. He’s been at court my whole life, growing smaller and grayer with age, though his booming voice remains as magnificent as ever.

“Ready, my dear?” he says, with such a look of pity that I’m suddenly suspicious.

“I . . .” Maybe Mara cinched my bodice too tightly after all. How can I be expected to breathe in such a thing?

Rosario’s hand squeezes my elbow. “It’s going to be fine,” he whispers.

I inhale deeply through my nose, relax my neck and shoulders, ground myself to the earth. It’s a trick Hector taught me, a way to find my “fighting calm.” Harsh winds, rough seas, still hearts, he always says.

But I must have said it aloud, because the Royal Guardsmen whisper their motto right back at me, “Harsh winds, rough seas, still hearts.”

I glance at Fernando, who gives me a quiet nod. It fills me with confidence. With light. “All right. Yes. I’m ready.”

The doors open outward, releasing a gust of body-warmed air. The palace guards tap the butts of their spears to the ground, once, twice. A hush falls over the audience. As one, heads turn to stare.

“Lady Red Sparkle Stone!” the seneschal booms, and I wince to hear my ridiculous name echoing over the heads of a thousand people. “Handmaiden to Her Imperial Majesty Empress Lucero-Elisa né Riqueza de Vega! Candidate for imperial adoption!”

Two Royal Guardsmen sweep inside before us, hands to their scabbards. The remaining two, including Fernando, will remain at our backs. It’s all highly choreographed—the crown prince as my escort, the Royal Guard contingent, the monstrous adoption gown—to send a message to everyone watching that I’m already royalty, and worthy of such things.

“His Imperial Highness Prince Rosario né Fleurendi de Vega!” the seneschal continues. “Crown Prince and heir to the united kingdoms of Basajuan, Orovalle, and Joya d’Arena! Conde of the Southern Reaches, youngest recipient in our great empire’s history of the Queen’s Star for acts of gallantry and intrepidity in circumstances of extreme danger!”

The vihuelas begin playing a stately interpretation of the “Entrada Triunfal.” Our procession moves forward, and the throng parts to make way, revealing a deep purple carpet that runs the length of the audience hall, ending at a large dais. The dais is occupied by familiar faces—Prince Consort Hector, his daughter Princess Ximena, Lady Mara, and the Quorum lords, all arrayed around Empress Elisa herself on her giant throne.

Hector is solemn as always, but his eyes twinkle as though he’s trying to resist winking. Elisa, however, is perfectly imperial, straight-backed and proud, her face grave. Her smile, when it comes, is slow and deliberate, as if reminding everyone of the magnitude of today’s ceremony.