Amara had learned that the palace assigned to her mother did not shout.
That was the first thing she noticed after the first week.
Pais had always shouted.
Not always with voices. Sometimes with doors. With servants rushing too fast. With guards standing too close. With noblewomen smiling too sharply at her mother. With her uncle's name moving through corridors like a hand closing around someone's throat.
But this palace was quiet.
There were attendants, guards, tutors, physicians, cooks, gardeners, and serious-looking people who bowed to Seraphina as if she were someone to protect rather than someone to trade.
But the quiet here was different; it was peaceful and light.
Amara liked the gardens best.
They were broad and golden in the afternoons, with stone paths warmed by sunlight and fountains that sang softly beneath carved arches. Pale roses climbed the columns, and saint's breath grew in low, fragrant clusters near the shaded walls.
Her mother liked those flowers.
