“Welcome, Your Majesty,” she says with forced confidence, “my name is Diaskia. I’m your guide during your stay on Delsar and will do my best to assist you with any requests you may have. Servants are unloading your belongings and will bring them to your rooms in the palace. Your advisors have each been provided with rooms close to yours, and your guards will have sleeping quarters on the same floor. I’ll escort you to the palace.”

“Thank you, Diaskia,” I say, and she stiffens, eyes unable to hide her fear of me. Nemesia takes over the coordination with her. Whether to protect Diaskia or to protect me, I’m unsure.

Diaskia turns to a large cart, carved with colorful depictions of the Delsar landscape and topped by a delicate silk sail. She gestures for us to sit with stiff movements, her fear still written clearly in her body language. When we’re all settled, she raises her hands and channels aether through the air to create a wind that fills the sails and slowly moves the cart along the dusty streets toward the palace. As we travel, she points out architecture or notable buildings. Nemesia’s eyes widen at the training yard and officer’s quarters for the all-female army Delsar is known for. Despite swearing off fighting and military leadership, Nemesia’s a warrior at heart.

When we reach the bleached white palace, massive and embellished with gold and silver accents that top its many towers and spires, Diaskia escorts us through a wing on the western side. Inside, it’s bright and airy, sparsely decorated except for the detailing carved directly on the stone. Battles are depicted alongside festivals and even births, marking a tapestry of Delsarian life. Servants pass us, their eyes widening in shock and then fear when they see me. Some bow before moving away, while others simply keep their head down and walk as quickly away from me as they can.

We reach a massive marble staircase, white but glittering when sunlight from the skylights above hit it. On the fifth floor, we turn left, walking toward a set of double doors inlaid with gold and silver. Diaskia opens them, walking through with my party of advisors and guards following closely behind.

“You should recognize these rooms, Your Majesty,” Diaskia says. “You were given them the last time the Forum of Royals was held in Delsar.”

“I’m sure they’ll be as comfortable this time as they were before,” I say with a smile, hoping to put the warrior at ease. But a few smiles and kind gestures won’t undo centuries of propaganda about the Witch Queen and her dark magic, especially because of my own decision to lean into the persona when it serves me. Diaskia tenses, her desire to leave apparent in the tight posture and darting eyes.