A few moments before the commotion, Princess Cordelia Valerion was doing what she did best — smiling.
Not a real smile, of course.
The real one had been locked away somewhere deep inside her, buried under layers of etiquette and expectation and the crushing weight of being the Empire's most eligible daughter. The smile she wore now was the one she had been trained to wear since she could walk — pleasant, warm, and utterly meaningless.
She was standing near the center of the ballroom, a glass of champagne in her hand that she had no intention of drinking, and she was listening to yet another young noble drone on about his family's estate, his accomplishments, his hopes for the future.
His name was something with three syllables. His hair was brown. His smile was too wide and his eyes were too hungry, and Cordelia had already forgotten everything he had said the moment the words left his mouth.
