(Rosaline POV)
A letter arrive. The seal was gold.
Not wax dyed to look impressive—not the lacquered crimson of noble correspondence—but true imperial gold, pressed thin and stamped with the twin-drake crest of the Draconian throne.
It arrived at midmorning.
The messenger did not wait to be announced.
He did not bow to the servants.
He dismounted, crossed the De Falon gates as if they were already his, and presented the letter directly to my father with both hands.
I was seated by the window when I saw it happen.
I knew, even before my father broke the seal, that my recovery had officially ended.
"Rosaline," my father said quietly.
His voice held no alarm—only gravity.
I rose slowly, careful of my ribs, and crossed the room. The ache in my chest flared, then settled. I had learned its language by now.
My father handed me the parchment.
The words were elegant. Polite. Impeccably respectful.
