I fell silent. The hearth crackled softly. Outside, frost clung to the citadel windows.
“I saw something in Ryzon’s eyes today,” I murmured.
“What?”
“Not concern for alliances. Not even anger.”
I swallowed.
“Possession.”
Aunt Irish stiffened.
“As if this crown belongs to them,” I said. “As if I am merely permitted to wear it.”
Her silence was answer enough. I felt the final thread snap.
They had crowned me. Celebrated my lineage. Praised unity. But they had expected gratitude for allowing me to rule.
My voice steadied, steel beneath the calm.
“I will not be a puppet.”
She closed her eyes. “Andrea…”
“I will not,” I repeated softly. “If protecting my people means tension with the main palace, then so be it.”
“And if it means danger?” she pressed.
“I will face it.”
Her composu
