Maryelle’s POV
Rome feels colder than I remember. The air is heavy, the streets louder, every sound sharper. Phantom walks beside me, his hand steady at my back, but the weight pressing down isn’t his—it’s the trial. It’s Canum.
We’re ushered into a chamber lined with books and polished wood, the kind of room meant to intimidate. Phantom’s legal team waits—three men and one woman, all sharp suits and sharper eyes. They rise when we enter, bowing slightly to him, then turning their attention to me.
“Princess Maryelle,” one of them says, voice clipped but respectful. “We’re here to ensure justice is served.”
I nod, though my throat feels tight. Phantom sits close, his knee brushing mine, a silent anchor. The scent of parchment and ink mixes with the faint tang of polished brass, and I
