(Rosaline POV)
The palace woke before I did.
I realized it not by sound, but by rhythm—the distant cadence of footsteps in the corridor, the low murmur of servants coordinating beyond my door, the faint chiming of bells from the eastern wing signaling the beginning of another carefully choreographed day.
I opened my eyes slowly.
Winter light filtered through the tall windows, pale and restrained, painting the silk curtains in soft gold. My body still carried the memory of pain, a dull ache lingering beneath my ribs, but it no longer ruled me. I could breathe without wincing now. I could sit up without the world tilting.
Recovery, the healers had said.
Not whole—but functional.
Priscilla entered quietly, as she always did, already carrying a folded gown over her arms. She paused when she saw me awake.
"You should have called for me, my lady," she said gently.
"I wanted to enjoy the quiet," I replied, pushing myself upright. "It doesn't last long in this palace."
