(Rosaline's POV)
The palace corridors had learned my name.
I realized it the moment I stepped inside.
It wasn't announced. There was no herald, no flourish of titles. Yet as I walked past marble pillars and gilded archways, conversations thinned and eyes followed—careful, appraising, sharp beneath polite smiles.
Not hostile.
Not yet.
But measuring.
I kept my pace unhurried, my posture relaxed, my expression composed in the way Priscilla had drilled into me since childhood. To look like you belonged was to remove half the knives aimed your way.
"Lady Rosaline," a noblewoman greeted as I passed, dipping her head just enough to acknowledge status without offering deference.
I returned the gesture with equal precision. "Lady Merrowen."
Her eyes flicked briefly to my hands—empty, unadorned save for a simple ring. Not the imperial signet. Not yet.
That was what they were looking for.
