The phantom heat of the burning camp and the weight of the commander's blade lingered on my skin long after the dawn sun fully broke. I spent the morning moving like a ghost through the Western Wing, my pulse still jittery from the dream's betrayal. Every shadow looked like a soldier; every soft footstep outside my door felt like a blade coming for my throat. By midday, the palace was a pressure cooker. The servant network was buzzing with whispers about Queen Lilith publicly humiliating Gunnar in the dining hall, and the air in the long corridors was thick with a tense, breathless anticipation. The formal announcement of the Winter Gala was scheduled for this evening, and I was expected to stand beside the Crown Prince as his obedient, submissive future bride.
But when the heavy oak door
