Stars caught in a glass jar

The royal palace of Agaevia was extravagant to say the least and stained with the blood of many that dared to evoke the wrath of the young woman seated on a luxurious chaise out on a vast balcony stretching meters. 

Amara Noe Taziri-Velarov.

Her wavy hair spilled over the chaise, each strand gliding into place beneath the maid's careful comb. The rich red fabric draped over, the gold embroidery that took twelve artisans three months to complete, shone under the lights just as they had envisioned it would. A crimson choker clung to her neck, its blood-red stones cradled in filigreed gold, with a teardrop gem hanging low. Matching earrings swayed in sync with the subtle movements of her head of the music. Her slender hands decorated in gold and crimson bangles, gold tassels drooping down clinking together in accordance to her movements. 

"Your Majesty, Lady Harcourt seeks an audience with you."

The music stopped. 

"Let her in."

A young lady with pin straight blonde hair flowing in the air as she ran into the room, wearing a simple fitted coral pink dress emerged from between the guards securing the entrance of the queen's chambers. 

The Taziri family guarded the borders between both Country A and Country F. Their ancestry could be linked to South Asians and even their customs strongly resemble them. Especially their clothing. However, over the decades, many branches of the Taziri line had diluted those roots in favor of Western fashion and behavior, desperate to assimilate with the rest of court. And the first to abandon tradition had been none other than the Queen's elder sister.

Lady Harcourt's eyes were filled with tears and grievance took over her facial expressions as she curtseyed half-heartedly. 

"Greetings, Your Majesty," Lady Harcourt's voice quivered as she spoke up. 

But Queen Amara's eyes remained closed, her breathing slow and even despite her niece curtseying before her, waiting to be given a sign to be at ease. 

Desperation seized the young noblewoman. Without hesitation, she sprang forward, dropping to her knees and clutching at the heavy folds of the queen's gown. "Please please, Auntie. Please don't let this happen."

Two servants standing nearby exchanged wary glances, lips tightening in disapproval.

One whispered, "How presumptuous…"

"Impudent!"

Before either could move, Amara's voice, calm but unmistakably commanding, cut through the tension. "Leave us."

The servants bowed stiffly and slipped from the room.

Alone now, Lady Harcourt pressed on, her grip tightening as she poured out her anguish. "This engagement....it should have been mine! Not Cecelia's. She's a merchant's daughter. It is an insult to the Harcourts that a merchant's daughter won and in relation, it is a slap to you face too. You must intervene. Break it off before it's too late."

Queen Amara finally opened her eyes, cool and calculating as they regarded her niece's situation. Her thoughts ran wild. The Sinclairs were nearly bankrupt, true, but as one of the founding houses, their political standing could not be erased by a few financially irresponsible decisions. Her son's future on the throne would require allies, and the Sinclairs' loyalty might prove invaluable.

Then she thought about the merchants. Their behavior was getting outrageous. The previous docile nature of this minority were gone replaced by arrogance under the leadership of the Whitmores. They were always scrambling, always grasping to get in line with nobles. Nobles were born superior, and no amount of gold could change that. The corners of her mouth curled slightly, not enough for the devastated young woman on the floor to notice as she thought about crushing the merchants. 

They need reminding of their place. And this... this is the perfect opportunity.

With measured grace, Amara reached out, lifting Lady Harcourt gently from the floor. "Very well said," she said softly. "I will handle this."

A spark of hope lit the young woman's tear-streaked face.

"At the upcoming horse racing event," Amara continued, "I will make my move."

Lady Harcourt's smile blossomed instantly. She threw her arms around her aunt, her voice rising in joyous strings of praise and thanks as she ran toward the door. "Thank you, Aunt Amara! Thank you! I won't forget this. May the queen live for a thousand years!"

Amara watched her go, lips curved in a knowing smile.

The game had only just begun.

The doors creaked open again after a brief knock, and the servants returned with lowered gazes and light steps, as if unsure whether the storm had truly passed.

One of them stepped forward and extended a folded handkerchief made of fine lace and silk.

Queen Amara took it without a word, wiping her hands slowly and with great pressure pressing the fabric to her hands before switching to dabbing her fingers delicately though there wasn't a trace of dirt or sweat on her hands. It is to be noted that the areas of her hands that she rubbed with significantly more force was what touched a certain young lady. Once done, she let the handkerchief fall to the marble floor, as if it no longer held value now that it had been used. 

The fabric landed softly near her heel.

"They shed our silks for foreign cotton and call it progress," she murmured, more to herself than anyone else, her eyes glinting with a particular emotion laced with anger. "My sister gave away our legacy for comfort and raised that daughter of hers to do the same. Tsk what a waste."

Her most trusted attendant, an older woman named Yelis, stepped closer and bowed her head slightly. "Your Majesty," she said in a low voice, "do you truly mean to stop the engagement?"

Queen Amara's lips curved into a quiet, indulgent smirk as she leaned back into the chaise, her bangles clinking together, creating an eerie melody in the pin drop silence of the room. 

"Yes," she said simply.

Her eyes drifted lazily to the discarded handkerchief.

"But," she added, voice cool and sweet to the ear yet intertwined with dangerous ambition, "it wouldn't be her turn yet."

Yelis nodded once, understanding the implication without question.

No one ever got what they wanted too soon.

Not unless she wanted them to.

The queen turned her gaze back out toward the horizon, the lights of the capital glittering in the distance like stars caught in a glass jar. Somewhere out there, her plans were unraveling, people were celebrating, others scheming for and against her. And soon, so very soon, they would all be dancing to her tune regardless of where they stood.