EMMALINE
The sound reaches me before the words do.
A low rumble. Boots against stone. Voices, hurried and tense, carrying through the hallways.
At first, I think I’m imagining it again. Another trick of my restless mind, filling the silence with ghosts that aren’t really there. But then the air shifts — charged, uneasy — and I hear the unmistakable clang of the front gates opening.
Someone’s here.
I rise from the chair near the window, my pulse quickening. For days, this place has felt like it’s holding its breath — too quiet, too still — and now, suddenly, everything feels alive again. The maids rush past my door, whispering in sharp tones, their skirts brushing the floor. I catch bits of their words as they go.
“—they’ve come from the North—”
“—the King himself—”
“—Dante doesn’t
