"Queen Anastasia?" Florian mumbled, the name slipping past his lips before he could stop it.
His feet shifted backward, boots scraping softly against the polished floor as if some instinct urged him to put distance between himself and Elara.
She only smiled in return, calm and poised, her hands folding neatly before her.
The sound of the ballroom shifted around them. The air grew colder, brushing over Florian's skin like a draft.
The gold-lit chandeliers suddenly seemed too bright, their glow clashing with the sudden heaviness pressing on his chest.
Laughter and chatter rose in a strange swell, louder than before, until the music and voices blurred into a ringing hum that made his head ache.
The name itself carried weight.
Anastasia.
The late queen.
Heinz's mother.
A figure carved into history with whispers, half-truths, and fragments of scandal.
