The winter sun hung low and pale in the sky, a weak, dying ember in a sea of gray.
For once, the heavy clouds had parted, allowing a thin, golden sliver of light to spill across the frozen palace gardens.
It was a cruel joke; the warmth was an illusion.
The air still bit with a teeth-chattering chill that no amount of sunlight could fix.
Queen Seraphina sat on a stone bench, surrounded by the skeletal remains of rose bushes.
The flowers had withered weeks ago, leaving only blackened, thorny branches that looked like claw marks against the snow.
She welcomed the meager light.
In a place like this, even the smallest warmth felt like a stolen treasure.
A book rested unopened in her lap.
Her mind was a storm of anxiety.
She had heard the whispers.
She had seen the fear in the servan
