The long hallways of the Roune castle were always more alive than its rooms because it was where the servants were noticeable. It was there that they talked to each other and decided on the final instructions, before disappearing into the backgrounds of dining rooms. Sometimes, they forgot they were allowed to speak and they signed to each other, as if in noble company.

Amaya passed them, not drawing a second look from any, in her hooded black cape. She was not hiding, but her dress was not fashionable enough to attract attention at the Roune court. Her everyday attire was more in line with what the lower nobles wore. Her personal guard followed her from a close distance, blending in with the other groups of soldiers marching.

There hadn't been a war in over two hundred years, only isolated battles that had been settled easily, like the Carpathian Border War, so their purpose was mainly for crowd entertainment. Demonstrations were often held in the capital's Royal Square, or parades that reminded them of their glory days. Tournaments in which they showed their mastery were also organized, to the amazement and joy of the people watching. Well paid and with little actual fighting to do, becoming a soldier was not an uncommon choice for young, poor boys who were able. Like the ones around her now, they would mostly be moving from one display of skill to another.

From the first day of her Roune stay, she tried to wear corsets and imitate the strange world around her, because she knew how important it was to Charles. In spite of the King's personality, the rest of the nobles were outwardly courteous, but with the same attention to details, and as quick to remark on one's flaws. Against their rigid system, heavily influenced by the Old Faith, she had failed before ever setting foot on the Lerontean ground.

In any other world, Charles should have been the one to come to Moaran and learn their ways, and adapt to them. He was only a Prince! But in the Eastern Empire, it was only the largest countries that mattered, the old friendships. She, as the ruler of a country that had made pleasure its main export, and one of the only two women seated at the Guardian's Council, mattered very little. The other one, her friend Queen Zal of The Free Islands, was even less well received at the council. After years of stealing their gold and their men, the countries of the Empire now looked down at the rapidly growing islands, they had too few resources left. Newly added to the list of countries worthy to have a say in the decisions of the Empire, The Free Islands were mostly ignored, except for the occasional disparaging joke and the outrage over The Free Islands Mercenaries infiltrating their borders.

Out of all the noblewomen that were introduced to her, she had made only one friend.

When in search of a husband, the women in Roune wore luminous clothing, in an array of soft materials and colors. They organized parties and made sure everyone attending them had a good time, all properly planned and in taste. The more lavish the social event, the more it said about its host's dowry.

Once married, they became elongated silhouettes in dark dresses, and wore strict, elaborate hair, ready to host dinner parties for their husbands' talks. They seldom got involved in conversations that were not about their children or their homes, and never without being asked.

Amaya waited for the guards to open the doors, then went inside the now more familiar old office alone, to negotiate the terms of her own future marriage. In her hands, were the documents that she relied on, carefully arranged, crumpled only where her fingers spent too much time counting them.

She hoped that her dress was appropriate for the occasion, as she had decided on it at the last minute, postponing the thought as much as she could. She chose black, it made less obvious the fact that she was not wearing a corset dress, even if it did look like one - thanks to its strategic lace. The cape helped her feel safe, it had her small knife in its pocket. It also helped with her other dresses, as she was always breaking some old rule and needed to cover up. The rule that said women must always have their arms covered. The one that said not to entice with your hair. The one that said her clothed body should not look like a woman's body.

In Moaran, no one cared about other people's sleeves.