(Rosaline POV)
I woke before dawn.
The first thing I noticed was the quiet.
Not the peaceful kind, but the fragile stillness that settles after fear has exhausted itself. The curtains were drawn halfway, pale winter light bleeding into the room in muted silver. The air smelled faintly of medicine and incense—Arthur's chambers had become both sickroom and sanctuary these past days.
I shifted slightly—and froze.
A sharp pain flared in my chest.
It was sudden enough that my breath caught, fingers curling instinctively against the blanket as if I could physically hold myself together. For a moment, the world narrowed to that single ache—tight, hollow, unfamiliar.
I closed my eyes.
Calm down, I told myself. You're just tired.
I had barely slept. Between watching Arthur's breathing, coordinating messages, and managing the fallout of the council's whispers, exhaustion had become a constant companion. Of course my body would protest eventually.
