(Rosaline POV)
The healers came at dawn.
Not because I needed them—but because the empire did.
I lay still as they moved around me, their robes whispering softly against the marble floor, their hands careful in the way one is careful with relics. Not hurried. Not gentle out of affection. Gentle out of reverence.
"Turn slightly, my lady," one murmured.
I obeyed.
Pain bloomed along my ribs, deep and aching, but I did not make a sound. I had learned quickly that silence unsettled them more than cries ever could.
The bandages were removed slowly.
Cool air kissed skin that still felt too close to breaking. I stared at the canopy above my bed—ivory silk embroidered with the sigil of House De Falon—and focused on breathing evenly while they examined the wound.
"So close," another healer whispered. "Truly blessed."
Blessed.
The word made my fingers curl into the sheets.
"If the arrow had deviated even a finger's width," he continued, "the heart would have—"
