(Arthur POV)
The winter rehearsal hall looks like a cathedral carved from snow.
White silk banners cascade from the vaulted ceiling. Silver lanterns reflect candlelight across the polished marble floor. At the center stands the ceremonial altar where my father will wed Elysande within days.
Everything is perfect.
Everything is precise.
And everything feels wrong.
Rosaline stands at the center of the chamber directing the final inspection.
She has been working since dawn.
I know this because I watched the lights in her chamber burn long after midnight. Because when I passed her study door before the morning council, she was already awake.
Because she refuses to stop.
"Adjust the southern aisle spacing," she instructs one attendant. "The Frostgate delegation requires additional clearance for their escort banners."
Her voice is steady.
But I see the cost.
The faint tremor in her fingers when she lifts the parchment.
The tightness in her shoulders.
