Theron exhaled slowly, seated in the garden with a delicate floral tea set arranged before him. A pair of chaperones stood at a respectful distance, while across from him sat Rosalyn, back straight, posture impeccable, as she sipped her tea with unhurried grace.

His jaw tightened.

This woman was a master manipulator. He had come here ready to confront her, ready to speak before she could twist the situation in her favor. Yet somehow, she had delayed him long enough to let him cool, gathered the elders into the conversation, and turned what should have been a direct confrontation into something almost civilized. Almost intimate.

But he had not come here for civility.

He had come to break the engagement.

And because she was a woman, he had been willing to extend that much courtesy.

"The lady must be very busy," he said coolly.

Rosalyn lifted her gaze, her amber eyes catching the last gold of the evening sun. "Oh? I beg your forgiveness, Your Highness. I was startled to hear you had come for a visit. I had just been preparing to retire for the day, and..." She smiled, graceful and unruffled. "I wanted to look my best."

Her fingers gestured lightly toward the tray. "You should try the scones. They are perfect."

Theron tilted his head and reached for one. He brought it to his nose, sniffed once, and then his expression soured. Without a second thought, he dropped it and crushed it beneath his boot.

"I thought you were busy hiring assassins," he said.

For a fraction of a second, Rosalyn’s smile remained in place. Then she ran her tongue slowly over her teeth, the polite mask on her face beginning to crack. She set down her teacup with a faint clatter. The delicate lady she was pretending to be vanished in an instant. Her eyes sharpened.

"All I said was that I do not share," she replied, voice turning cold, "and you are already here, pleading for someone who is not even worth the dust clinging to my least favorite pair of shoes."

Theron leaned back in his chair, head tilted slightly, and despite himself, let out a low chuckle. He had never struck a woman in his life. Even now, as irritation simmered hot beneath his skin, propriety held him back.

But only just.

"All you had to do was nothing," he said. "And you could not even manage that."

His laugh only seemed to provoke her further.

"Nothing?" Rosalyn echoed, eyes narrowing. "Like your mother?"

That did it.

Theron’s hand clenched around the armrest, knuckles whitening. Did she just compare Aveline to a mistress?

When he looked at her again, every trace of restraint had vanished from his eyes.

"What made you think you are worthy to be anywhere close to where my mother stands?" he asked.

Rosalyn’s composure cracked for the first time. Her cheek trembled with restrained fury.

Was he saying she was unworthy?

That she, Rosalyn Caelvaris, was less than some nameless orphan?

"In the end, that is not for you to decide, is it?" she said sharply.

Theron’s lips curved into something colder than a smile. He rose from his seat.

"Then pray," he said softly, "to every god you know... that she remains safe."

His gaze drifted briefly around the garden, taking in the polished wood, the elegant structure, the quiet pride of the estate.

"For someone who bends fire..."

His voice dipped, almost thoughtful.

"...choosing to live in a wooden mansion is a very bold decision."

And with that, he turned and walked away. 𝚏𝗿𝗲𝐞𝐰𝚎𝕓𝐧𝚘𝘃𝗲𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝕞

Rosalyn’s hands trembled.

Had he just threatened her family?

She gave a short, bitter laugh, more offended than frightened.

"I do not like you," she muttered, already turning toward her grandmother’s study, "but I am not going to lose to you, Prince Vaelor."

Not this time.

Not to an orphan’s ghost. Not to a crown prince who dared to protect what should have belonged to her.

She would not let this go.

-----

Rosalyn stormed into her grandmother’s study, breath sharp with irritation, paying no mind to the towering stacks of documents spread across the desk. Ink, parchment, sealed letters—none of it mattered to her in that moment.

Archduchess Leone, who had been working through that mountain with steady patience, set her quill aside and leaned back, listening as her granddaughter vented without restraint.

"If he wants to break the engagement, let him," the Archduchess said at last, her tone calm, almost dismissive. "It is not our loss. I will find you someone far more suitable."

Rosalyn’s foot struck the floor with a sharp, petulant force.

"But he cannot refuse me first!" she snapped.

Leone closed her eyes briefly, pinching the bridge of her nose, warding off a headache.

"What exactly do you want me to do?" she asked, resignation slipping into her voice.

Rosalyn huffed, folding her arms. "Never mind. I’ll handle it myself."

And she did not waste time.

—

She slept well that night.

Too well.

Because by morning, her mind was clear—and her resolve even sharper.

Dressed impeccably, she made her way to the palace, gifts prepared in advance: delicate golden ornaments, crystalline jewelry said to soothe the mind and bring restful sleep. Thoughtful. Calculated.

Everything she did carried intention.

—

When news of her arrival reached Queen Margrethe, the queen merely nodded.

"Prepare jasmine tea," she instructed calmly. "The one I acquired last month. It will suit her taste."

Margrethe chose the terrace for their meeting—a carefully shaded corner where the sunlight softened into something pleasant rather than harsh.

She sat waiting, composed as ever.

She had already heard whispers of Theron’s actions the previous day. Of a girl he had personally sponsored into the Arcanum. Of the way he had behaved in the Vantaris estate.

The court, of course, was already spinning stories.

But Margrethe was not concerned.

She knew her son.

If he had brought someone close, it would not be for romance, not in a way that threatened the stability of the crown. He would choose someone useful. Someone loyal.

Not... reckless affection.

All she needed to do was make Rosalyn understand that.

Time passed.

And still, Rosalyn did not come. A faint crease appeared between Margrethe’s brows. Then she noticed the maids, clustered behind pillars, whispering, glancing her way, and nudging one another forward, but none daring to step up.

"What is it?" Margrethe asked sharply, irritation seeping into her tone.

One of the younger maids was pushed forward. She stumbled, dropping to her knees.

"Your Majesty... that..."

"Spit it out," Margrethe snapped.

Respect. That was something she had long been denied. Her husband’s open favor toward his mistress had weakened her standing, emboldening even the lowest servants to hesitate, to whisper.

The maid trembled violently.

"Your Majesty... Lady Rosalyn went to meet Her Grace..."

Margrethe frowned.

"Her Grace?" she repeated coldly. "Who?"

One of the ladies-in-waiting stepped in quietly, understanding dawning.

"Ingrid?"

For a moment... Margrethe’s face lost all color. Then it returned in a rush of heat. Her hands trembled.

She chose her?

Rosalyn had come to the palace... and gone straight to the mistress? Was she being dismissed so easily? Reduced beneath even that woman?

Rage surged through her, sharp and uncontrollable.

Without warning, she flung the still-hot tea in her hand. The liquid splashed across the kneeling maid, who cried out, collapsing forward.

"How many times must I say it?" Margrethe’s voice rose, breaking into something raw. "Do not call her ’Her Grace’! She is a mistress—a mistress!"

Her composure shattered completely.

Porcelain shattered next. Then glass. Then anything within reach as she lashed out, fury spilling into destruction.

—

Elsewhere in the palace, far removed from that storm, Rosalyn sat calmly, elegance restored as though nothing in the world could disturb her.

A maid poured Earl Grey into fine china before her.

Across from her sat Ingrid. "You don’t mind a little sun on you, do you Rosalyn?" she asked, opening a fan.

"I like a little tan on me, Your Grace." Rosalyn lifted her cup, taking a slow sip before setting it down with quiet precision.

Then she smiled.

"You look exceptionally beautiful today, Your Grace," Rosalyn said.

Her gaze flicked briefly toward the palace.

"After all... the woman who stands closest to the throne should look the part."

She lifted her cup.

"Especially when the position is about to... change."