(Rosaline POV)
The horns echoed through the forest.
They were meant to sound triumphant—clear, resonant calls that marked the beginning of the imperial hunt. Tradition dictated that the first horn celebrated abundance, fortune, and the Emperor's favor upon the land.
But as the sound rolled across the hills, something twisted in my chest.
It was wrong.
Not in volume.
Not in timing.
In shape.
The echoes came back uneven, swallowed too quickly by the trees. The air felt tight, heavy, as though the forest itself were holding its breath.
I stood at the edge of the royal stage, hands folded neatly before me, posture composed to the point of stillness. From the outside, I must have looked every bit the noblewoman—calm, observant, untouched by nerves.
Inside, my thoughts were racing.
Servants moved back and forth behind the stage, murmuring updates in low voices. A page rushed past with a stack of dispatch slips, nearly colliding with a guard who snapped at him for his haste.
