Rosina Novarre was still buried in her blankets when the three knocks came. The same rhythm. The same hour.
"Give me a minute," she called, her voice heavy with sleep and edged with irritation.
"Breakfast is ready, Your Highness," came the formal reply, the older woman's tone carrying through the door.
"As if I didn't know," she muttered, dragging herself from the warmth of the bed. Bare feet against the cold floor, she unlatched the door.
The four maids filed in at once, uniforms crisp, hair pinned, their faces blank as ever. Behind them came a woman in her mid-forties—Daliya, the head maid, her hands folded as though she had never learned how to rest them. Rosina didn't need to look to feel the woman's gaze, measuring her with that sternness carved deep into her lined face.
"Has Father returned?" Rosina asked over her shoulder as she headed straight into the bathing chamber. The cool water she splashed over her face made her gasp; she hadn't even waited for it to warm up.
"His Majesty has not returned, Your Highness," Daliya replied.
Wonderful. The toothbrush jammed between Rosina's teeth. "Pick something plain. The blue ones," she ordered around a mouth full of foam. She rinsed, spat, wiped her face briskly, then dropped into the chair at her dressing table. "Just a braid. No do-ups. They make my scalp ache like hell."
In the mirror, Rosina caught the flicker of disapproval on Daliya's face—a look she knew too well. It meant the head maid was displeased not only with her choice of words, but with the graceless way she had tossed them out.
Still, Daliya held her tongue. So the women went about their work in silence, as they always did: nimble hands lifting the long sweep of her platinum hair, smoothing the edges of her bedsheets, drawing the blue gown over her shoulders.
Once they finished, Rosina swept out without a word, sleep still clinging faintly to her eyes, the storm in her stride carrying her toward the Monarch's Wing.
"I've told you not to stay up so late with those books," a voice rang warmly across the dining hall as soon as Rosina entered. The voice was firm, yet softened by affection.
Queen Arlena sat waiting, light spilling gently across her face. Beauty clung to her, the kind that stilled a room. Her eyes, a shadowed green-blue, carried the hush of forests; but it was her hair—platinum strands streaming like molten pearl in the morning sun—that drew and held the gaze. She wrapped herself in deep green, modest and composed, and when her voice rose, it did so unhurried, like mist uncoiling over a garden at dawn.
"Sorry, Mother," Rosina murmured with a smile, slipping into the opposite seat. She lowered her head, hiding the dark circles under her eyes from her mother's displeased gaze. "It was a good one. Too good to leave unfinished. Where's Roen?" The plates arrived just as she sat.
Arlena smiled faintly, resuming her meal. "He's long gone, dear. Even the tutors complain he comes too early for lessons."
"He could've just waited for me." Rosina frowned, lifting her utensils.
"Rosina." Her mother's tone sharpened. "Napkin first."
Rosina paused, gave her mother a quick, silent look, then obeyed without protest, spreading the linen across her lap. "But there's only us."
"Manners are habits, my dear," Arlena said with a patient smile. "I allow you slack where I can. But your father will return soon, and he will notice. Do not make him notice for the wrong reasons."
Rosina lowered her head once more. "Yes, Mother."
Perhaps sensing the heaviness, her mother shifted the air with a lighter tone. "So—what was this book about?"
"The other kingdoms." Rosina's face lifted at once. "Or rather, how they've interfered with us over seven centuries of our rule. Torvo is volatile, though hardly a threat. Dravina—" her voice sharpened—"they're full of freaks."
"Language, Rosina," the Queen's voice rose again.
"Sorry, Mother." Rosina forced a smile. "Well, with their poisons, their witchcraft, their deities. But their beliefs will undo them. They're still too far behind. Loraque is impossible. No commander in his right mind would march across the Northern Ridge. But Vessaint... they're the ones we should watch. Quiet when they prepare, quiet when they strike. That's dangerous."
Arlena gave a small sigh, though her smile lingered. "I trust the book is full of lessons. But remember, they are still only books. A princess who knows war and politics but stumbles in etiquette will find herself admired less than she hopes."
Rosina pressed her lips together. The food sat tasteless in her mouth. "Of course, Mother," she said at last, placing her cutlery aside neatly. Her light-blue eyes met her mother's green-blue ones with unflinching poise. "I only wish I might one day be as graceful as you."
That made Arlena laugh softly. "The way you say it, I know you won't." She set aside her own plate. "Breakfast was dull, wasn't it? Let's walk the gardens instead."
Rosina rose with her, relieved, and followed her mother out of the hall into the quieter air beyond.
"So whose wife is visiting today, Mother?" Rosina asked without much enthusiasm. Her steps matched her mother's along the gravel path, but her thoughts clung stubbornly to the book from the night before, not to the roses and lilies spilling color into the garden that morning.
"Minister Liane's, dear," Arlena said. "Lady Liane is quite displeased—her son Rosette has chosen to enlist with the Army instead of securing a post in the Ink Bureau like his sister."
Rosina blinked. "Rosette? Did you just say her son? That sounds like a girl's name."
Her mother's laugh was quiet. "Lady Liane said he was too pretty when he was born, and the name matched his elder sister Lisette. You likely haven't met him, but he is... remarkably beautiful. For a young man."
"Beautiful?" Rosina echoed, the word strange on her tongue.
"Yes. Handsome wouldn't be quite the word. He's gentle in manner, precise in speech, graceful without effort. The older Ladies never tire of speaking of him. They call it a waste that he's gone into... what was it again? Shadow Corps, perhaps. I must ask Lady Liane again."
Rosina tilted her head, amused. "Perhaps you should arrange for me to meet this Rosette Liane, then."
Her mother's smile widened, touched with a trace of mischief. "I suppose I could. The Lianes, after all, are regarded as the very model of etiquette among the Prime Houses. Perhaps he might improve your own manners, my dear."
Rosina returned a faint, sly smile. Better stir the talk back to the visiting Lady, she thought.
But before words could leave her mouth, three knocks came again at the door. The same rhythm, the same sound.
Sina opened her eyes.
"Your Highness." The familiar voice carried through the door—older now, roughened with years, but unmistakable.
Daliya.
Sina blinked. The ceiling's carvings came into focus, morning light filling in. Her mother's voice still lingered in her head as if that conversation at breakfast had been only yesterday.
She pressed her palms over her eyes, forcing herself back to reality before answering, "Daliya, come in."
The door opened in a careful swing. A familiar figure stepped in—her face stern, more lined now, umber hair twisted neatly at her nape without a strand astray.
"Your Highness," Daliya's voice came steady, until her slate-blue gaze found the Princess. Then it broke, rising in sudden alarm. "You slept on the floor again!"
Sina pushed herself upright, rubbing the sleep from her face, the thick blanket still around her shoulders. "Yeah... The bed was too soft. I couldn't fall asleep."
The head maid sighed. Whenever the Princess returned from long stretches away, the same scene repeated. Daliya knew she had grown too used to the cold ground, the thin camp mattresses, the creaky barracks bunks—but knowing didn't make it easier to watch. Slowly she approached, ready to lift the blanket from the floor—but Sina's voice stopped her before she could bend.
"Daliya, I told you—I'll put them back myself. Don't trouble yourself with little things."
Daliya's hands froze, then folded. "Yes, of course, Your Highness." She stood aside, watching as Sina gathered the bedding, smoothed the blanket across the mattress, tucked the edges neat, before heading to the bathing chamber.
From behind the bathing chamber door, Daliya's voice came again. "Your Highness, may I help you get ready?"
"No need, Daliya. I'll do it."
"Then... at least have breakfast first. Or allow me to pack you something."
"I can do without breakfast. Don't worry."
Soon Sina was seated at the dressing table, weaving her platinum hair into a quick braid. Behind her, Daliya stood motionless, her silence full of weight, like someone waiting to be called upon.
"You look bothered," Sina said, catching Daliya's reflection in the mirror.
"Your Highness, you haven't asked me for anything in a long time."
Sina turned, smiling playfully. "Shouldn't you be glad? You've had to keep this place in order alone while I was gone. You deserve a rest."
Daliya lowered her gaze. After the incident, all the other staff had been reassigned. Only she remained, left to keep these chambers spotless, warm, alive—as though the Princess had never left. For eight years she had held that illusion together, the careful lie that Rosina Novarre still lingered within these walls, glimpsed only now and then at her brother's side.
"Your Highness," Daliya said softly, "Her Majesty would be proud."
Sina's hands paused on the fastening of her black uniform, then moved again.
"No," Sina murmured. "She'd be furious."
Daliya could not see the Princess's face—only hear the evenness in her tone. Unsure how to answer, she crossed to the tall bookcase and pressed against its side. With a soft hush, the shelves gave way, revealing the narrow passage beyond. By the time the hidden door swung fully open, Sina was already dressed and ready.
"I'll be back late evening," Sina said, lifting a small Ignium lamp, its pale flame blooming as she set it alight. "Tell my brother I'll join him for supper."
Behind her, Daliya's voice came soft, hesitant. "Where will you go today, Your Highness?"
"To see Rosette."
"Marshal Liane?" Daliya's surprise slipped through. She had not heard that name in years.
"Yes. Don't tell my brother, if he asks."
"Of course."
With lamp in hand, Sina descended into the narrow spiral. The bookcase whispered shut behind her, leaving Daliya alone in the quiet chamber once more.