inside, a father speaks in declarations, not conversation. a mother nods along, her smile as fixed as the portraits on the wall. pansy learned early that love here was conditional—measured in blood purity and proper matches.

she learned to wear her rebellion like a second skin. the perfectly pressed robes. the sharp retorts. the way she'd hold her chin just so, daring anyone to look closer.

but at night, when the torches guttered low and the castle settled into sleep, she became someone else entirely.

her dormitory is warm, lit only by the dying embers in the grate. the curtains around her four-poster are drawn tight, a cocoon of silk and shadow.