Hell hath not fury than a sister deceived

"Make way!" 

The carriages bearing crests from faraway lands roll into the Capital, the clip-clop of hooves and rumble of wheels on cobblestones announcing their arrival. Commoners line the roads, craning their necks for a glimpse at the foreign dignitaries.

One convoy bears the Asana crest - cavalry on horses and soldiers marching with flags dancing in the wind. The crowd surges with excitement when they recognize the royal emblem. 

"Crown Princess!" they shout, hoping to catch a glimpse of their future empress. 

Inside a carriage, Yettiri sits rigidly beside the fake princess trembling like a leaf in the wind. They managed to find a noble lady who has the exact figure as Yetsune but she's a frightened mess. 

Yettiri sighs, irritation prickling beneath her skin. "Get a hold of yourself," she snaps.

The fake princess wrings her hands, her voice barely above a whisper. "I-I'm s-sorry, Your Highness."