Reborn to Rewrite the Throne
As our eyes met, something softer flickered there—an almost imperceptible sigh hidden beneath courtly composure, as though he already anticipated the disappointment he believed I was about to choose for myself.
Only that morning he had leaned against the carved mantel in my aunt’s solar, arms folded, studying me with that same mixture of amusement and concern.
“You do have eyes, Hazel. Must you always chase a man who barely looks at you? You could choose my brother instead. With your standing, why beg for indifference?”
He had laughed then, careless and warm.
And yet—
In my previous life, when I was condemned, it was Alexander who rode from the northern border without rest, driving his horse