(Rosaline POV)
Silence has weight.
I did not understand that until I returned to the capital.
The room I occupied was spacious, refined, and impeccably arranged—too orderly, too clean, too untouched by chaos. Silk curtains filtered the afternoon light into a soft glow that painted everything in gold and ivory. The faint scent of incense lingered in the air, chosen carefully to calm rather than distract.
This was what safety looked like.
And yet, my chest felt tight.
I sat at a polished desk near the window, fingers resting against cool wood as I stared at the page before me. The quill lay untouched beside the inkpot, its tip already darkened, waiting.
Outside, the city moved as it always had.
Carriages rolled over stone. Vendors called out their wares. Somewhere, bells rang to mark the passing of an hour that mattered to no one in particular.
Life continued.
I exhaled slowly and picked up the quill.
This was my battlefield now.
I wrote carefully.
