(Arthur POV)
The palace had always known how to whisper.
Even when it was quiet—especially when it was quiet—the walls carried the echoes of intent. Silk slippers brushing marble. Doors opening a fraction too softly. Eyes that lingered a second longer than courtesy allowed.
I felt it the moment I heard her name.
"Lady Rosaline de Falon has been summoned," the chamberlain said, voice carefully neutral. "Privately."
No council seal.
No schedule entry.
No escort assigned.
My fingers stilled on the armrest of my chair.
"By whom?" I asked, already knowing the answer.
There was the faintest hesitation. "By Her Grace… Elysande Heathfield."
The future empress.
The words did not need to be spoken aloud to land with weight.
I rose slowly, every movement deliberate, measured. This was not a battlefield where instinct ruled. This was the court—where impatience was blood in the water.
"How long ago?" I asked.
"Moments, Your Highness." he replied.
Moments.
