Adorned from head to toe in silver jewelry embedded with thick cuts of amber, Princess Freanna is wild-eyed with a crown of chestnut-colored hair that she leaves unbound and free. Just eighteen years old, she is the only surviving child of the First Bearking, the first two having died in an accident several years before.

“They were chasing a stag,” the princess had said over some dinner where she’d gotten into too much wine. “The dull-minded cubs didn’t see the rotted wood of the tree beneath them.”

Spoiled and stubborn, Freanna takes as much pride at digging in her heels on matters of state as she does sparring with warriors in her bear form during her spare time.

Freanna slumps into her chair. She wears a dress the color of moss and belted with chains of silver studded with claws. Of the five bearkings, Freanna’s family is sovereign right now. Their kings rotate every ten years. Despite her attitude, Freanna’s voice is needed here.

Even she will see reason, I tell myself. She must.

The horselords’ ambassadors are right behind. Stern as ever, Lord Cambor greets us with a stiff bow. Dressed for practicality, the only hint of his status is an intricate silver breastplate, the metal having been worked so intelligently that it looks as if it is made of woven reeds. There are three horselords in all, each with equal power.

Cambor’s wife, Lady Marradoa, similarly acknowledges us with a curtsy, her dark brows pulled together in knowing concern. Her eyes flick around the room, taking in every detail as she would if she were in her equine form. In my experience, she keeps her words and thoughts close to her chest, choosing to listen rather than speak, but in private conversation, she is warm and tactical. The food supply for the Four Kingdoms has flourished under her guidance.

A chime sounds, and I stand without thinking. “Their royal highnesses, King Kharo and Queen Laianna of the Leonodai.”

My heart thrums. Skies, I’ve shared bread at their table on more than one night, but the sight of our people’s monarchs still steals the breath from my lungs.

King Kharo’s dark attire is visibly simple. Pious, I think. He is a king, but today he will try to get his way without straining relationships with the other kingdoms.

The queen’s gown matches that of her husband: a rich blue so deep it would have appeared black in another light. Her circlet rests intertwined in her hair, which has been arranged in a warrior’s style: braided down to her neck, then tied off in a low ponytail. The other ambassadors may not make the connection, but to any Leonodai present, the choice speaks volumes—everyone in the Four Kingdoms must be ready to fight.

They take their seats, with the rest of the room following suit.