Pearl-hued twilight slid across the gallery's marble columns, staining the floor in molten gold. Evelina stood motionless by the window, clutching an ostrich-feather fan to her chest — the Emperor's gift, as weighty as her title. Below the stained glass, the palace gardens breathed night-violet perfumes, but her gaze clung not to blossoms, but to the shadow flickering by the fountain. Lidia — she recognized the russet curls instantly, snared by the sun's final ray. Her rival moved as if dancing, trading smiles with the guards. Evelina gripped the feathers until their ribbed edges bit her palm. "Even here, she plays the innocent. That silk-clad serpent," hissed her inner voice, yet her lips — trained for performance — already curved into a saccharine half-smile.

"You are the Emperor's blood. Above them. Above all," she reminded herself, turning to the mirror. Her reflection answered with the cold gleam of chestnut eyes. A gown of lunar dust, silver embroidery, pearl threads braided into hair — the perfect façade. But her fingers strayed to adjust a stray lock escaping her intricate coiffure. Trying too hard — the thought flickered, and she jerked her hand back as if burned. No. No, she would not permit doubt...

The rustle of silk curtains severed her thoughts. A maid hovered in the gallery doorway with a tray — wine, fruit, a note sealed with the Dowager Queen's crest. Evelina nodded acceptance but touched nothing. The wine's cloying scent recalled Itanian feasts where her father-Emperor raised goblets in her honor, his eyes as empty as the cup after toast. He sees you as a shrewd investment, something whispered, but she drowned it in the swish of skirts as she settled at the calligraphy desk.

The quill glided across parchment, scripting ornate verses of a sonnet — another "casual" gift for court ladies. "The moon kisses roses, yet only night knows their thorns..." The poetry flowed easily as ever, but today, darker lines bled through. "Imperial blood does not stain lips — it parches them..." Evelina crumpled the sheet violently, hurling it into the hearth. Flames licked the paper, and for a heartbeat, she swore her mother-Countess's face flickered in the fire — the same portrait she'd burned at twelve.

Deep breath. Exhale. Sandalwood incense from the brazier steadied her trembling fingers. From a hidden pocket, she retrieved a dried cornflower — foolish, pathetic, plucked secretly a week prior. Hiding behind statue, she'd watched him converse with Petra Ezerit. A simpering girl in plain muslin, blushing at every word... yet he'd listened, head tilted as if her prattle held wisdom. Evelina crushed the flower, petals scattering like tears. Why this weed? she mocked herself, yet tucked the remnants away. Futile. All futile.

The gallery clock chimed eight. Time.

Rising, she smoothed her gown and drifted down the corridor where shadows pooled into indigo. The library — her sanctuary — waited beyond an oak door. Slipping inside like smoke, she breathed in the scent of aged vellum and beeswax. Here, among these tomes, she could almost... be. Fingers trailed spines: "History of Caesora,""Treatises on Diplomacy," a volume of folk ballads. She pulled the last, smiling faintly. Foolishness. Sentimental drivel of knights and love. But sometimes, rarely...

A rustle. Evelina whirled, clutching the book to her chest, but the aisle stood empty. Imagination, she sighed, flipping to a random page. "...and the princess said: 'My heart is a fortress, yet you hold its key.'" Weakness. She snapped the book shut — then froze at footsteps, light as moth wings.

"Who's there?" Her voice cut sharper than intended.

Silence. Then a soft laugh, and Anna Meshen emerged in her perpetual terracotta gown, dagger glinting dully at her hip.

"Do you always read in darkness, Lady del Monte? Or is this a new Itanian custom — ruining eyes for romance?"

Gooseflesh prickled Evelina's spine. Show no weakness.

"Lady Meshen." She offered a half-curtsey, precise as a blade's edge. "I sought a treatise on Caesoran customs. To better appreciate... local color."

Anna stepped closer, forcing Evelina back. Those eyes saw too much — past pearls and silk, into what writhed beneath.

"Color," Anna echoed, toying with her dagger's hilt. "Curious. I seek a herbal on medicinal sage. They say your Itanian variety heals wounds faster." She bent for a folio, honey-sweet scent cloying as her smile.

"I pray you've no plans to test it," Evelina sneered, masking tremors with venom.

"Oh, I prefer to heal," Anna spread the book open, revealing a dried cornflower pressed between pages — identical to Evelina's. "But sometimes... to mend, one must first lance the wound."

They stood frozen, eyes locked over the barricade of unspoken words. Evelina looked away first.

"You ought to mind your metaphors, Lady Meshen. At court, they might be... misconstrued."

"And you — your sonnets," Anna replied, unexpectedly gentle. "Between the lines, one sometimes reads more than entire chapters."

Before Evelina could retort, Anna was already gliding toward the exit, trailing honey and implications. The book with the cornflower lay on the table — a gauntlet thrown.

Midnight found her at her chamber window. The moon, cold and flawless as her own mask, illuminated the parchment where she scrawled the same word again and again: "Worthy." The quill tore the paper, reducing letters to black gashes. Am I? The question hung thick, mingling with the scent of withering violets in their vase. She recalled the Dowager Queen Anna Itanian's touch that morning — a hand grazing her cheek, murmuring, "You are perfection, child." But her eyes held no warmth, only appraisal, like a merchant weighing goods.

A nightingale sang somewhere in the gardens. Evelina pressed her palm to the glass, cold seeping into her skin. What if he sees? The thought came unbidden, as always when he lingered in her mind. What if he notices the tremor in her hand when she passes him a book? Hears her voice fracture mid-sentence at his approach?

She closed her eyes, conjuring his footsteps — heavy, deliberate — a rhythm that quickened her pulse even when she willed it still. Today, he had been distant again, untouchable as ever. But tomorrow... Tomorrow's reception in the Golden Hall. She'd already chosen her gown: silver-blue, like moth wings. And the sonnet that would "accidentally" slip from her sleeve to his feet.

Moonlight filtered through the plane trees, embroidering the path with lace-like patterns. Evelina walked blindly, her gown's hem soaking up dew from peonies. Anna Meshen's words still echoed in her mind: "To heal, one must lance the wound." A foolish provincial. As if she understood anything of true wounds — those that festered for years beneath perfectly embroidered silk.

A rustle in the honeysuckle bushes made her start. Evelina froze, her grip tightening on the fan. Lidia? The Dowager Queen's spy? Her thoughts darted like panicked birds. But it was neither a servant nor her rival who emerged from the shadows — a tall man in a dark, unmarked doublet, his face half-hidden by the garden's gloom. He stood leaning against a marble column, the darkness sculpting his features into ambiguity.

"Forgive me, I didn't know anyone was here..." Her voice rang too loudly in the garden's hush. Evelina immediately regretted the words — they reeked of nerves.