(Rosaline's POV)
Two weeks passed.
In that time, the palace returned to its measured rhythm—as if nothing had happened. Courtiers whispered about border disputes and trade routes. Knights resumed drills at dawn. The empire moved forward, uncaring of the small fractures left behind in the hearts of those caught beneath its weight.
And Vlad recovered.
That was what the reports said.
Fully healed. Cleared from the infirmary. Returned to labor at the stables, his strength restored, his wounds reduced to scars hidden beneath linen and silence.
I did not go to see him.
Not once.
It wasn't cruelty.
It was restraint.
If I saw him again before I was ready, I would falter. I would cling. And if I clung, I would undo everything I had resolved to do that night beside his bed.
So, I waited.
The morning the messenger bird arrived, the sky was overcast.
