Not in the sense that I was abandoned but that this moment was mine alone. The doors opened without command. The light beyond them was blinding, not from sun, but from flash after flash of press drones, media sigils, nobles’ personal archivists crowding the threshold, all of them desperate to catch
(Violet’s POV) They stood when I entered.Not out of respect or fear but out of awareness. The kind that settles into the bone when a room realizes the air has changed—when every whispered theory, every hushed debate, every what-if and no-she-wouldn’t finally walks through the doors wearing real s
I lifted the bundle and tipped it into the river. The ash fell in uneven strands, scattering across the surface before the water pulled it down—into the silt, into the memory, into the deep.The wind shifted, brushing against my cheek like something ancient exhaling through the trees. I didn’t whisp
(Violet’s POV)It took three hours by skiff and another hour on foot to reach what was left of the village.No one called it by name anymore. On court records it was listed only as a “neutral burn site,” part of the rogue raids that swept through the lowlands during the last territorial surge. But I
“I didn’t authorize that directly,” Ronan said quickly. “I delegate—”“To whom?”There was no answer.I felt my jaw tighten—not from fury, but from the muscle memory of too many years spent biting my tongue.The questions kept coming. Documents. Letters. Account ledgers. Every answer he gave, the pr
(Ronan’s POV)They told me to be honest.Not with facts—those had already been twisted in filings and filtered through press briefings—but with tone. With presence. The court didn’t want truth. It wanted confession dressed as sincerity, apology without consequence.So I gave them that.I stood as in