Stella
The castle smelled like sugar, frosting, citrus polish, and panic.
It was a very specific kind of panic—the polite kind, the kind that wore a clean apron and insisted everything was fine while quietly sprinting toward disaster. Servants moved in swift currents down the halls, arms loaded with trays, ribbons, baskets of tiny favors, bowls of fruit carved into spirals, and an unreasonable number of candles for a celebration meant for children who didn't even understand what a birthday was.
The great hall had been transformed.
Soft fabric draped from the rafters in two colors—pale pink and blue—threaded through with gold ribbon that caught the light every time someone walked beneath it. Flowers crowded every surface in a way that made it feel like the castle had decided to pretend
