Zeraphine’s POV
The candlelight flickered over the scattered papers, casting restless shadows along the dark wood of the table. The scent of warm wax mixed with the faint smoke curling from the hearth, where the fire burned low, its embers glowing like watchful eyes in the dim room. The documents before me—accusations written in ink, sealed decrees pressed with wax, and subtle betrayals woven between carefully chosen words—felt heavier than mere parchment.
I pressed my fingers against my temples, forcing myself to focus. The writing was meticulous, crafted with precision meant to cut deeper than any blade. Some were outright challenges, questioning my strength, my right to lead. Others were more insidious—doubt sewn into formal language, the kind that festered in the minds of the uncerta
