For the rest of that week, Sina did not return to the Ignis Compound.
The servants were startled to see their Princess appear again in the Main Wing. For eight years the Princess had kept away from that part of the palace. Not only because it had little to do with her—its council chambers, envoy halls, and bureaucratic offices all belonged to the King's domain—but because it was also where the banquet hall stood. The place of the poisoning. The place where her betrothal had been announced and so many lives had ended. The place where, every year since, the memorial had been held.
Not once had they seen the Princess attend the memorial. None were surprised—how could she? They had long known Princess Rosina shied from public view even before the tragedy, appearing only on rare occasions such as royal birthdays or the Founder's Week each spring. And yet here she was now, moving briskly through that same hall, directing servants on how the flowers should be arranged, where the podium should be placed upon the dais.
Reentering that cursed chamber was not as harrowing as Sina had imagined. In fact, it no longer felt like the same place at all. The bones of it remained—the high ceilings, the arched windows—but the curtains were new, the walls freshly painted, even the chandelier replaced by a more modest design.
It was as if the banquet hall of eight years ago had been erased. Perhaps her brother had ordered the changes to keep the memory of that night from clinging too heavily to the palace, or to spare guests the unease of standing in the very room where more than a hundred souls had spit blood and perished.
On one hand, the changes steadied her, allowing her to work without being overcome by the past. On the other, she found the new style ghastly, a tasteless mismatch to the rest of the palace's aesthetics.
Crude and ill-mannered though Sina might often be, even she had her standards. And this—this was unacceptable. Much work would be needed to restore the hall to proper dignity, to keep it from looking so drab and joyless. No, if her brother truly meant this memorial to be the last, then it must not be steeped only in sorrow. It should shine as a remembrance of the bright and wondrous reign their parents had given Nivara.
And so the servants endured three breathless days of hurried renovation under their Princess's sharp direction. By the third evening—one day before the memorial—the banquet hall had been transformed. Not restored to its former splendor, perhaps, but certainly rescued from the dreadful tastelessness it had worn before. Now it gleamed with color, even verging on too much—almost festive for what was meant to be a mourning ceremony.
"Perhaps it is a little bright for the tone of the memorial, Your Highness," a servant ventured carefully as Sina surveyed her work.
She turned a sharp glare upon him. "And aren't you tired of making it all gloomy and depressing year after year?"
"It is... a fresh take, Your Highness," the man stammered, though his fear of the King outweighed his unease at her rebuke. "But I fear His Majesty may prefer things done as they have always been."
"I've already told him," Sina replied flatly. "If he dislikes it, I will answer for it. Besides, my father and mother would never have wanted a colorless ceremony in their names. They loved banquets full of splendor and bright decoration, didn't they?"
"They surely did," a third voice answered, smooth and warm, carrying across the hall.
Both Sina and the servant turned toward the doors. A striking man stood there, his honey-blond hair catching the light, his pink eyes aglow with their usual warmth. His poise was all elegance despite the viridian weight of his military uniform. The smile on his lips—bright, angelic—was one Sina knew all too well.
"Marshal Liane," the servant breathed, bowing low, caught between surprise and formality.
Even Sina was caught off guard. "Rosette," she said, blinking. "What are you doing here?"
"I've come to see you, Your Highness," Rosette replied, his smile only brightening as he strode toward her in long, easy steps. He extended his hand with polished grace.
Sina sighed quietly. Always with the etiquette, always with the gestures. Still, she placed her hand in his without complaint. Her gaze slid past him to the servant. "Leave us for now. Attend to the rest."
The servant bowed once more and withdrew, leaving the Princess and the Marshal alone in the banquet hall.
"Is it about Soren Bach?" Sina asked in a low voice, careful not to let her words echo through the vast chamber. "You could have just sent a Scout."
"I could have sent a Scout," Rosette admitted softly, "but it is not often I see you within these palace walls—or call you Your Highness."
Sina was at a loss for words. She chose to redirect instead. "Will you be at the memorial then? I've heard you've never attended before."
"I am not one for mourning the past," he replied. "But since Your Highness will be present, I will attend this time."
"Look how quickly news travels to you, Marshal Liane," she teased, narrowing her eyes. "I made my decision only days ago, and already you know."
"Of course," he said with a smile pure as spring light, "I must remain well-informed at all times. I only wish to serve you as best I can, Your Highness."
"Then let us move to my quarters," Sina said, already turning toward the doors. "I would rather no stray servant's ears carry pieces of this conversation elsewhere." She knew too well the lengths Rosette would go to ensure silence, if it came to that.
"After you, Your Highness." He followed without hesitation, his long strides falling a respectful pace behind hers.
When they entered the Princess's Wing, Daliya was there to greet them. The old head maid halted at the sight of the man with rose-colored eyes walking at her young mistress's back. It had been eight years since she had last seen Rosette Liane cross this threshold.
Daliya had served long enough to see men and women of every stripe come and go from the palace, yet never had she encountered a man so arresting—so elegantly poised, his beauty a startling anomaly in the world of swords and politics. She remembered the first time clearly: he had come when the Princess was twelve, likely at the late Queen's invitation, a beautiful youth then with softer features. Now his beauty had matured into a stunning handsomeness, but the innate grace in his every movement was unchanged.
The Princess had always kept to herself, secluded, her private wing closed against most visitors. For Rosette Liane to come here had been remarkable enough. Yet after that first visit, he had returned—again and again. Once a month, without fail. Always on time. Never empty-handed.
Flowers, chocolates, books. Fine brooches, rare jewels from the southern ports, perfumes from the far western markets. Gifts upon gifts, left in her care.
Daliya never knew what passed between them when the doors shut, nor how her unruly young mistress had formed such an unlikely bond with so polished a man. She only knew the pattern: they spoke always in private, in the enclosed guest chamber—just as they did now.
And so, as expected, when the two stepped inside, Daliya set down a pot of tea, closed the door softly behind them and quietly returned to her own quarters, leaving them to their secrecy, as she always had.
"I must say, I'm impressed by how quickly you came to me this time," Sina remarked as she settled into her familiar armchair by the window, the place she always claimed in this private chamber.
Rosette slipped easily into the chair opposite, pouring two cups of tea with his usual elegance. "That is because of how simple Soren Bach's profile was, Your Highness. Unlike what I first expected, the young man's history is remarkably clean. I can say with confidence he holds no ties to any known enemy of the crown. He has not crossed paths with a single person of interest beyond his own town—let alone beyond Nivara—or with anyone on our watchlists before entering the army."
Sina accepted her cup, though her brows furrowed. Relief pricked at her, yet it tangled with unease. Rosette's findings were never careless, never shallow. But a life that spotless? That was suspicious in its own right. "How is that even possible? You make it sound as though he's never traveled anywhere within Nivara."
Rosette's smile was calm. "In fact, Your Highness, you are correct. For the first eighteen years of his life, Soren Bach never left Viremont—rarely even beyond the bounds of his small town, Avendria."
"You're serious?" She blew across her tea, blinking at him. "Was he poor or something?"
"You are correct again," Rosette said, still smiling. "Soren Bach was among the poorest of the poor. He grew up in an orphanage."
Sina went still. The steam from her tea curled upward, forgotten. Her eyes widened, fixed on him. Rosette gave only a subtle nod to confirm it. Slowly, she lowered her cup back onto the table, her fingers lingering against the porcelain.
"So, Soren was an orphan," she murmured, the words barely audible. Her gaze dropped to the floor, dimmed by something like sorrow. "I assume others from that orphanage ended up in the army as well," she said after a pause.
Rosette studied her face for a heartbeat, then inclined his head. "It seems Your Highness has already met another from the same place. Seppo Bach—he had recently qualified for the Ignis Corps alongside Soren Bach in the latest batch. But there are more. Two others, older, who reenlisted after their mandatory service: Leevi Bach, now with the Medic Corps, and Oskar Bach, who failed the Ignis entrance exam but serves still in the Archer Corps."
Sina absorbed the stream of information in silence, her gaze growing distant. So—the older trainee she had glimpsed the other day was Seppo. That explained why he and Soren looked nothing alike, despite sharing the same last name. After a long pause, she lifted her cup again. "Go on."
"There is an old woman," Rosette resumed, unhurried as he took a sip of tea, "the matron of the orphanage. Marta Bach. I presume they all took their last name from her. Since his very first month of service, Soren Bach has sent the majority of his wages back to her—always through the Royal Courier, and without fail, every single month."
"The majority of his wages?" Sina echoed, startled again. "Then what does he even keep for himself? Do the others do the same?"
"Not at all," Rosette replied. "The other three have never sent anything back. It appears to have been entirely his choice—not a duty to the orphanage."
"How noble of him," she murmured, a trace of wonder in her voice. Then, narrowing her eyes slightly, she tilted her head at Rosette. "What else? You look as though you're holding something back."
Rosette's lips curved in a knowing smile. "Perhaps it is only my personal impression, Your Highness," he said carefully, "but I did find one thing unusual about Soren Bach. Unlike the others, he enlisted himself at eighteen, rather than waiting for conscription. The army welcomes such initiative, of course, but... to my eyes, it is not the norm. Still, given how poor the boy was, perhaps he simply had no better option."
Sina's gaze sharpened. "I see," she noted curtly before falling quiet again.
Rosette noticed the faint shift in her expression, but—as always—he let it pass. Graceful, unruffled, he lifted his cup and drank, as though savoring every subtle note of the fragrant tea.
"That would be all I have to say today, Your Highness," Rosette said at last, setting down his teacup. "Perhaps I should not take up any more of your time. You seem to have busied yourself with the memorial."
"And I should let you attend to yours," she replied, rising from her seat. "I will see you again tomorrow then? I won't be showing myself in the main hall, but I'll remain in the back room to attend the ceremony. Find me there, if you wish to see me."
"Of course. I always wish to see you." Rosette rose as well. Then, as though remembering, he slipped a hand into the inner fold of his long coat and drew something out. A square of silk, pale pink, delicately embroidered with floral motifs, it caught the chamber's golden light with a soft shimmer.
"A handkerchief?" Sina asked, receiving the fabric into her palm. "For me?"
"You will need it," he said, smiling in that calm, angelic way of his—without explaining further.
Sina did not protest. She had long since learned there was no refusing Rosette once he had decided a gift belonged to her. "Thank you," she murmured instead, though she could not guess what he meant.
Her gratitude seemed to deepen his smile. "See you tomorrow, Your Highness." With that, he bent briefly over her knuckles, lips brushing lightly against them, before he turned and disappeared through the guest chamber doors.
Once Rosette was gone, Sina lowered herself back into her chair.
The tea he had poured for her still sat untouched, still faintly warm. She reached for the cup, lifted it to her lips, and blew across the surface before sipping. Her gaze drifted to the window as she leaned back.
Why would Soren lie about something so small? Sina wondered. She remembered clearly the casual question she'd thrown at him just days ago—"So you were conscripted?"—and his simple yes, plain as day. Yet Rosette had told her otherwise: Soren had volunteered. Perhaps he had his reasons. But perhaps she shouldn't take his every word on faith anymore.
The handkerchief rested lightly in her palm. Lifting it to her face, she drew in the faint scent of roses and musky notes woven into the silk. The scent was unmistakably Rosette's, familiar enough to make her feel—if only for a moment—safe.
The sensation hung with her only a moment longer before duty returned to the forefront of her mind. Setting aside the handkerchief, she finished her tea in a few swift swallows, then slipped out of the chamber and made her way once more toward the Main Wing.