(Rosaline POV)
The parchment arrived with too much ceremony for something so thin.
I knew what it was the moment Priscilla announced the messenger—before the seal, before the gold-threaded cord, before the crest of the imperial dragon stared up at me like an unblinking eye.
Winter proclamations always came dressed in splendor.
That was how the empire liked to deliver bad news.
The messenger knelt, one knee touching the marble floor of the receiving hall, his gloved hands presenting the scroll as though it were sacred scripture rather than a royal decree. His posture was perfect. His expression unreadable. He did not look at me as a girl, nor as a noblewoman.
He looked at me as a future fixture of the throne.
"By order of His Imperial Majesty," he recited, voice crisp, "this proclamation is delivered to Lady Rosaline De Falon, in recognition of her standing within the imperial court."
Recognition.
The word tasted strange in my mouth.
