The morning after the betrothal celebration arrived cloaked in gray clouds and a hush that felt far too deliberate.
Beatrice sat by her window with a cup of lukewarm tea in hand, her robe still gathered loose at the waist. The festivities had drained the court overnight. She'd heard only soft footsteps in the corridors so far, no chatter, no laughter. Even the bells seemed to ring slower.
It should've been a moment of triumph. Her name had been spoken beside the crown. Her place secured. The kingdom had seen her and not flinched.
But still...
That unspoken dread lingered, like the aftertaste of bad wine.
She dressed slowly. Simple wool, hair half-twisted at the crown, and no jewels. Not today. She wasn't in the mood to look like something gilded.
Lily entered only once to set down a fresh plate of breakfast, but Beatrice barely touched it.
Instead, after a long moment of stillness, she made her way outside.
