[Lady Serina's POV]
The Festival of Lights had ended, but the glow still danced in her mind.
Not because of the lanterns.
Because of him.
From her private terrace, Serina watched the palace's east wing. That was where his chambers were. No light flickered there, no shadow moved across the drawn curtains. The stillness was deceptive, and she knew better than to believe in stillness.
Her maid poured wine into a thin glass, the ruby liquid catching the lamplight. Serina did not drink it. She let it swirl, the way she did with every thought before she spoke it aloud.
She replayed the day in her head—the prince's polite attention, the fraction of a second when his gaze had lingered on her. He was not a man who gave himself away easily. But she could wait.
Serina always waited.
A knock at the door. One of her spies. She waved him in without a word.
"He spoke with Lady Miren again tonight," the man murmured. "Briefly."
Her lips curved, but not in mirth. Lady Miren's name had been whispered alongside the prince's for years, a safe pairing approved by the court. Serina knew such whispers were harder to fight than armies.
"And?" she prompted.
"He did not stay long," the man said. "But… there is another matter. A maid was seen entering his chambers."
Her grip on the wineglass tightened just slightly before she set it down, untouched.
Of course.
She was not the type to storm down the halls in jealousy. No, she let the knowledge settle like a drop of ink in clear water, darkening everything in its time.
"Thank you," she said. The spy withdrew.
She turned back to the terrace, to the east wing where the curtains still hid their secrets. Her reflection in the window smiled back at her—not the polite curve she wore in public, but the smile of someone who already knew she would win.
Maid was… temporary.
Lady Miren was… tradition.
Serina would be inevitability.