(Rosaline POV)
Winter had arrived without apology.
The palace corridors smelled faintly of pine resin and polished marble. Servants moved like drifting snowflakes—quiet, efficient, leaving transformation in their wake. White silks were being draped over balcony rails. Silver-threaded banners bearing the sigil of Draconia hung between towering columns. Fresh frost roses—cultivated in heated greenhouses for the season—were arranged in crystal vases along the grand staircases.
The wedding preparations had begun.
Not loudly.
Not with fanfare.
But unmistakably.
I walked the eastern corridor at a measured pace, hands folded before me. The hem of my dark winter gown whispered against the stone floor. Heads bowed deeper now when I passed. Eyes lingered longer.
"Your Highness."
They were testing the title already.
It did not belong to me yet.
And yet it hovered there—half-spoken, half-assumed.
I inclined my head with practiced grace.
