Kamran finished dressing himself without the assistance of his still-sleeping valet, and

then—to the shock and horror of the palace servants⠀”stole belowstairs to filch a
cup of tea from the kitchens on his way out.
He needed to speak with his grandfather.
Kamran had lived at the royal palace his whole life and yet he never tired of its
resplendent views, its acres of manicured
gardens, its endless pomegranate groves. The grounds were of course always
magnificent, but the prince never loved them more than he did at sunrise, when the
world was still quiet. He stopped where he stood then, lifting the still-steaming cup to his
lips.
He was standing in the illusion of a glittering infinity; the single mile of ground beneath
his feet was in fact a shallow pool three inches deep. A sudden wind nudged water
against his boots, the soothing sounds of gentle waves a welcome balm for his tired
mind.
Kamran took another drink of his tea.
He was staring up at the soaring, open-air archways, their tens of dozens of exquisite
columns planted into the shallow depths around him. The smooth white stonework of
the structures was inlaid with vibrant jewels and vivid tiles, all of which benefited now
from the blossom of a waking sun. Fiery light refracted against the bezel-set gems,
fracturing endless prismatic colors along the sleeping grounds. More golden rays
shattered through the open arches, gilding the water beneath his feet so that it looked
almost like liquid bullion.
The beauty of Kamran's life was often lost on him, but not always. There was some
mercy in that.
He finished the last of his tea and hooked a finger through its glass handle, letting the
cup swing as he strode onward. With the rise of the sun came the stir of servants;
snodas were popping up all around him, bustling past with vessels and trays.
Baskets of pomegranates were balanced precariously on
heads, under arms. There were silver trays heaving with baklava and delicate honey
grapes, others stacked high with fresh barbari bread, each oblong sheet the length of a
setar. And flowers—manifold bouquets of flowers⠀”tens of servants rushing by
carrying armloads of the fragrant stems. There were copper bowls filled with glossy
green tea leaves; basil and mint and tarragon piled high on gold platters. Another
endless procession of snodas carried rice—innumerable, incalculable sacks of rice.
Sudden foreboding caught Kamran by the throat; he went unearthly still.
Then he spun around.
There was more; there were more. More servants, more trays, more baskets and
tureens and bushels and platters. Wheels of feta cheese were shuttled past; trolleys
overstuffed with fresh chestnuts. There were stockpiles of vivid-green pistachios and
salvers laden with saffron and tangerines. There were towers of peaches; an
abundance of plums. Three servants shuffled past with a tremendous dripping
honeycomb, the mass of sticky beeswax spanning the width of an oversized door.
Every second seemed to bring more.
More crates, more hampers, more sacks and wheelbarrows. Dozens and dozens of
servants rushing to and fro.
It was madness.
While it was true that there was often a great deal happening at the palace, this level of
activity was unusual. To see the servants getting started so early⠀”and with so much
to occupy their arms—
Kamran drew a sharp breath.
The teacup slipped from his finger, shattering as it hit the ground.
These were preparations for a ball.