Rowan pressed on. “And if the princess’s negotiations failed?”
Her father smiled, thin and wintery. “Then at least she would have learned the true cost of diplomacy.”
There was a silence. Alina felt the words settle around her, prickly and cold.
“Your reasoning is sound, Your Highness,” the King said at last, “but the world beyond these walls rarely follows the path of reason. Even the best-prepared plans can unravel, given the wrong provocation.”
He regarded her for a moment longer—an assessment, not affection—then inclined his head to Rowan. “Proceed with the lesson. I shall observe.”
For the next hour, Lord Rowan did exactly that. The questions grew harder, circling around the edges of politics and the Realm’s bloody history: who had betrayed whom, which alliances were truly binding, and what measures were acceptable when duty clashed with conscience.
Alina answered each question with growing fervor, her cheeks coloring. She saw, with a mixture of pride and bitterness, that she was exceeding even Rowan’s high expectations. And yet, the more she impressed them, the more she hated it. She was a tool, honed and polished. Not a daughter. Not even a person, not really.
At the end of the lesson, Rowan closed the ledger and gave her a rare, genuine nod. “You have the makings of a fine ruler, Your Highness.”
Her father’s mouth twitched with approval. “Indeed. There are moments I almost believe you will not disappoint us.”
It was meant as a compliment. It struck like a blade.
She stood, offering a perfectly measured curtsey to them both. “Thank you, Lord Rowan. Thank you, Father.”
The King watched her a moment longer, eyes searching for something she could never provide, then he turned and swept from the room.
As she gathered her notes, Rowan lingered behind. “You need not let his words unsettle you,” he said quietly, almost kindly. “He was not raised to be gentle.”
Alina wanted to say something. To protest, to lash out, to demand that she be seen for more than the sum of her answers. Instead, she only nodded, chin raised.
“He does not know any other way,” she said, voice steady. “Nor do I.”
She let herself out, her footsteps echoing back to her from the marble floor, each one harder than the last.
The palace gardens lay silent beneath a shroud of winter, every hedge sculpted under a shell of ice, the fountains stilled and rimed with frost. Beyond the glass walls, frozen branches clawed at a sky the color of pewter, and the flower beds were little more than memory under drifting snow. In winter, Alina preferred the gardens in the early morning, when the world was hushed and the only movement was the ghost of her breath in the biting air. But today, the meeting was set for afternoon in the conservatory, a shelter of glass and warmth among the deep cold.
The conservatory was a world apart from the ice outside: glass panes arched overhead, their edges laced with condensation and the faintest traces of ice. The air was humid, weighty with the scent of earth and the citrus tang of winter-blooming orange trees. Here and there, pale camellias and delicate paperwhites pushed from mossy pots, their blossoms stark against the green. The warmth from the sunstones underfoot seeped through Alina’s slippers, asubtle luxury she never took for granted in winter. Occasionally, a gust of wind rattled the glass, making the ferns tremble in their marble planters.
A filigree lace tablecloth had been carefully draped over the table for tea, set among a thicket of potted evergreens and silver-leafed shrubs. Delicate porcelain cups gleamed beside a carafe of spiced winter cordial, and a platter of sugared fruit tarts sat glistening like jewels. Even in this oasis, the display felt almost too perfect, and Alina found herself both grateful for the beauty and unsettled by it.
Queen Isabella was already seated, her posture a study in regal relaxation. She wore a gown of soft gray, pearls at her throat and nothing to mar the pale serenity of her face. Even here, among white blossoms and the distant rustle of winter leaves, she held herself with the composure of a woman always being watched.
Alina arrived precisely on time, as drilled. She moved through the lush green with slow, measured steps, letting her own sense of composure settle over her like a second skin. The diffused winter light caught on her hair, and she was pleased—despite herself—that she had chosen not to braid it today.
“Mother,” she said, with a smile that was genuine, if not quite unguarded.
Isabella’s return smile was swift and subtle. “My dear. Please, sit.”
Alina obeyed, folding herself neatly into the chair opposite. She allowed her hands to rest, fingers laced, on her lap in a conscious correction of posture. The Queen noticed. She always did.
Tea was poured, the rhythm of the ritual as soothing as it was constricting. There was comfort in the predictability: the warmthof the cup in her hands, the faint rattle of spoon against porcelain, the hush as Isabella waited for her to take the first sip.
They sat a moment in silence, watching a small finch dart in to peck at the frost outside the glass.
Isabella was the first to break the quiet. “How was today’s lesson with Lord Rowan? I heard the King came to observe.”
Alina’s pulse flickered. Her mother’s eyes, so warm in color, were rarely warm in intent.
“I did well,” Alina said, voice light. “Father seemed… pleased.”
A shadow passed over Isabella’s face—too quick to pin down. “Your father values strength above all. I value… other things.”
