You've met the suitors you're interested in. It's time to retire to your chambers to prepare for the fete. (NOTE: You can only continue the story with suitors you've visited before retiring!)

It is mid-afternoon when you arrive back at your chambers. There’s some small administrivia to attend to on your desk (ruling a territory does not stop just because you’re being courted), but while you take your time to tend to the pile of papers -- signatures on trade routes; your sigil on royal decrees -- you can’t help but think about your suitors, and who tomorrow might become your betrothed.

{if LyraVisited1 = true}You think about Lyra, her long black hair, that long blue dress. You think about how easily her haughtiness melted away, how quickly the ice of her composure melted in the face of curiosity.{endif}

{if MadelineVisited1 = true}You think about Madeline, her bright eyes, that charismatic smile. You think about how dear she clearly is among her people, how easily she seems to fit into every space she occupies -- confident and kind.{endif}

{if RaviVisited1 = true}You think about Ravi, that wavy hair, that dashing smile. You think to his sharp wit and his sharp blades, how underneath all that flash and bravado, something deeper, more hidden, and more earnest peeked through.{endif}

{if VaughnVisited1 = true}You think about Vaughn, that Kingly stature, those hungry eyes. You think about how effortless his command was on those ramparts. You remember the gravel in his voice, the cold calculations behind his gaze, and the fire it held when it fell on you.{endif}

You smile. You can begin to imagine it, your future.

Your chambers turn gold with twilight. The noise that has been pervading your castle since morning finally begins to quell, concentrating now in the inner courtyard and ballroom. New smells waft in on the cooling breeze: roasted rabbit, mulled wine, garlic and potatoes. The soft pluckings of a lute join the whisper of your fluttering curtains as the performers begin to set up.

There’s a knock on your door.

“Enter,” you say, and your servants -- on time and expected -- come in with small nods and bows and begin drawing your bath, laying out your clothes, preparing your perfumes.

You finish your work with a flourishing signature, and when the bath is drawn you enter. When you’re finished -- bathed and clothed and rather charming-looking in the mirror -- night has fallen. The smell of the feast is overwhelming now, the tender notes of the band in full swing. You can hear the murmuring din of the fete from here.

Prepared, though still with a deep breath, you leave at last for the ballroom.