The rose was a lie nestled in velvet. Its perfect, blush-pink petals, its thornless stem—a pantomime of chivalry that made my skin crawl. Cassian's note was not a request; it was a branding iron. Wear the bracelet as a sign of our… understanding. To refuse would be an open insult. To wear it would be to step onto his stage wearing his prop.
I stood before my mirror, the cold star-iron charm a hidden weight against my skin, the lingering, bitter taste of the tonic on my tongue. I held the rose. Then, with deliberate care, I used a pin to secure it not to my bodice or hair, but to the beaded reticule I would carry. It was a compromise—the rose was visible, acquiescing to his command, but it was not on me. It was an accessory to an accessory, a subtle demotion. The message, should he care to read it, was clear: I acknowledge your power, but I am not yours to adorn.
My gown was a masterstroke of subdued defiance. It was impeccably tailored, of the finest Thorne-sponsored silk, but the color was a deep, twilight grey-blue, not the vibrant pinks or whites expected for a spring tea. It was the color of distant mountains, of a gathering storm. It had no excessive frills or jewels, only subtle silver embroidery at the cuffs and hem that shimmered like frost when I moved. It spoke of noble status, but also of reserve, of a quiet, unassailable dignity. I dressed my hair simply, letting my silver-blonde waves fall in a controlled cascade, secured with silver combs. My appearance was a shield: elegant, untouchable, and utterly unlike the desperate, attention-seeking girl Seraphina and Cassian expected.
The walk to the Rose Pavilion was a procession through a gauntlet of whispers. Noble students, resplendent in their pastel finery, watched me pass. Their eyes held curiosity, disdain, envy, and a hungry anticipation for scandal. I kept my gaze forward, my posture a rod of iron, feeling Elara's presence like a supportive shadow a few paces behind. She was dressed in Northern sapphire, a cool, steady contrast to the spring palette.
The pavilion itself was a folly of exquisite beauty. An open-air structure of white marble and wrought iron, swathed in cascading banks of crimson and white roses whose scent was almost cloying. Within, small round tables draped in lace were arranged around a central fountain. Sunlight dappled through the climbing vines. It was a scene from a pastoral poem, a meticulously crafted illusion of peace and refinement. Every vase, every ribbon, every perfectly arranged petit four was a piece of the set.
The Crown Prince held court at the largest table, positioned to command a view of the entire space. He was a masterpiece of gilded masculinity, his golden hair catching the sun, his smile a practiced work of art. He held a teacup lightly, laughing at something a fawning marquess's son said, but his eyes—the clearest, coldest blue—were constantly scanning, assessing.
They found me the moment I crossed the threshold.
His laughter didn't falter, but his gaze sharpened, pinning me in place like a butterfly to a board. A slow, approving smile curved his lips. He excused himself from his circle with a graceful word and began moving toward me. A path cleared for him as if by magic. All other conversations hushed, then resumed at a higher, more eager pitch. The main attraction had arrived.
"Lady Rosalind," he said, his voice a warm baritone designed to carry. He took my hand, not to shake it, but to raise it, bowing over it. His lips did not touch my skin, but the gesture was profoundly possessive. "You honor us with your presence. And I see you received my humble token." His eyes flicked to the rose on my reticule, a spark of something hard flashing in their depths before being drowned in charm. "Though it pales beside the wearer."
"Your Highness is too kind," I replied, extracting my hand with a smooth, non-negotiable motion. My voice was polite, perfectly modulated, and as warm as a glacier. "The pavilion is breathtaking."
"It serves its purpose," he said, his gaze roaming my face with an intensity that felt less like admiration and more like an appraisal. "To draw out the rarest blooms. And you, my lady, are in full bloom today. A remarkable change from the… delicate blossom I recall."
The trap was being laid. The reference to my past 'delicacy'—the original Rosalind's nervous, eager-to-please demeanor.
"Time and experience are the true gardeners, Your Highness," I said, meeting his eyes squarely. "They prune what is weak and allow stronger growth."
A flicker of surprise, then intrigued calculation. He hadn't expected a metaphor, let alone one with teeth. "Indeed. And what a fascinating growth it is. Composed. Assured. Almost… regal." He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice to an intimate pitch meant only for me, though I knew every ear was straining to hear. "It makes one eager for a closer understanding. The Empire always has need of strong, beautiful pillars."
The subtext was as subtle as a hammer. Fall in line. Be my pillar. My consort. My trophy. His attention was a net, woven from flattery and threat. It was predatory, the charm a glossy veneer over the raw hunger for control and consolidation of power. He didn't see me; he saw the Thorne name, my altered demeanor that suggested usefulness, and the challenge of a pawn refusing to sit still on his board.
"The Empire's needs are vast and varied, Your Highness," I replied, sidestepping the intimacy entirely. "I am but a student, still learning its geometry."
His smile tightened at the corners. I was refusing to play my assigned role—the flustered, flattered maiden. "All the more reason to seek wise guidance," he pressed. "Perhaps, after the festivities, you would join me for a turn about the Imperial gardens? We could discuss… geometry."
It was a command disguised as an invitation. A semi-public walk that would cement speculation, that would place me firmly in his orbit.
"You honor me, Your Highness," I said, offering a shallow, perfectly correct curtsey that created distance. "Though I fear my day is quite spoken for. Academic obligations, you understand." The refusal was polite, absolute, and unprecedented. A murmur rippled through the nearest onlookers.
For a heartbeat, the mask of charm slipped entirely. In his eyes, I saw not anger, but a cold, clean annoyance—the look a master chess player gives when a pawn unexpectedly knocks over a bishop. Then the mask was back, more brilliant than ever. "Duty before pleasure. A noble quality. We shall see what the day brings."
It was a warning. A promise. He gave me a final, lingering look that seemed to catalog my every feature for later use, then with a regal nod, he moved away to greet other new arrivals, the perfect host once more.
I could feel the weight of a hundred stares. Elara materialized at my elbow, her voice a low hum. "You just publicly declined a prince. You've either got a spine of star-iron or a death wish."
"Both," I murmured back, my gaze not on the Prince but sweeping the pavilion. My senses, honed by a day of paranoia and a lifetime of battlefield awareness, were fully engaged, but now with a singular, narrow focus. The social duel was a distraction. The true battlefield was logistics.
I noted the servers in their dove-grey livery moving with silent efficiency. My eyes tracked hands, not faces. A tray of empty cups is being carried in. The glint of a porcelain rim. There—a stack of plates, gold edging catching the sun. The gold-rimmed china set was on a separate, smaller cart near the western service entrance, being polished one final time by a senior steward. It was treated with reverence, set apart.
And then I saw him. Gil. He stood slightly apart from the other servers, his posture stiff. He was rubbing his thumb over the jade ring on his left hand, a repetitive, nervous gesture. His eyes were darting, not meeting anyone's gaze. He looked like a man marching to the gallows.
Good. Fear made mistakes. It also made one predictable.
I allowed myself to be guided to a table by a steward. It was not at the Prince's table, thankfully, but at a smaller one nearer the eastern service entrance—the one Elara said would be sun-blinded. I recognized the calculated placement. Seraphina's work. I would be slightly isolated, with a clear path for servers to approach from my blind side. Perfect.
I took my seat, arranging my grey-blue skirts. I placed my reticule with the branded rose on the table before me, a silent, thornless declaration. I accepted a cup of tea from a passing server—plain white china, not gold-rimmed. The first serving round. Harmless.
Across the pavilion, Seraphina held court at a table of her sycophants. She was a vision in shell-pink silk, her strawberry blonde hair a cascade of artful curls. She laughed, a sound like tinkling bells, and her eyes met mine. They held no malice, only a sweet, friendly concern that was more terrifying than any glare. She raised her own cup in a tiny, cheerful salute. "To your doom," the gesture said.
I gave a minute, polite nod in return. I see you.
My entire world narrowed to the flow of service. The clink of spoons, the murmur of conversation, the scent of roses and tea and perfume—it all faded into a dull roar. I watched the gold-rimmed cart. After the pastries were presented and the second round of tea was poured (I declined a refill), the senior steward began loading the pristine, glittering cups onto a tray.
My heart rate, which had been a steady, controlled drum, began to pick up. This was it. The third serving round.
Gil was handed the laden tray. The weight of it seemed to bow his shoulders. He started his circuit, moving from the Prince's table outward. He served the Duke of the East's nephew. He served a giggling countess. Each time he bent and presented the cup, his movements were stiff.
My table was in his path. He approached, his eyes fixed on a point just over my shoulder. His breath was shallow. On the tray, three cups remained. Two were identical. The third, the one at the front of the tray closest to him, was ever so slightly apart. Was it my imagination, or was there a faint, almost imperceptible smudge of something pale on its inner rim?
He stopped beside me. "My lady," he whispered, his voice tight.
This was the moment. According to Seraphina's script, he would serve me the front cup. He would make the switch from a clean one to the poisoned one now, under the guise of offering a choice.
But he didn't. He just stood there, tray trembling slightly, his knuckles white around the edge. His eyes, wide with a panic he couldn't suppress, flicked past me—towards Seraphina's table.
He was waiting for a signal. She was controlling the final move.
I looked up at him, my expression one of mild, polite inquiry. "Is something the matter?"
My voice seemed to startle him. He jerked, the cups rattling. "N-no, my lady. Forgive me." His hand moved, not to the front cup, but hovered over the two identical ones behind it. He was hesitating. The plan was unraveling in his panic.
Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw a flutter of pink. Seraphina had dropped her napkin. It was the signal.
Gil's jaw clenched. His hand darted to the front of the tray, his fingers closing around the rim of the suspect cup. The switch was about to happen. He would present it to me, and the die would be cast.
At that exact moment, a strong, familiar hand clamped down on Gil's trembling wrist, halting the cup midway between tray and table. A low, gravelly voice, cold as a northern wind, cut through the pavilion's hum. "That one looks chipped, steward. You wouldn't serve a lady with flawed porcelain, would you?" I looked up, my breath catching, into the silver-gray, storm-filled eyes of Duke Kaelen Frost, who had arrived utterly unannounced.