The stained-glass windows of the castle let in soft golden light, filtered just enough to cast delicate patterns across the marble floor. Outside, birds chirped faintly. Inside, the atmosphere was stiff, choking under the weight of powdered wigs, cologne, forced smiles, and ego.

Annalise sat poised on her ornate seat, throne would be too grand a word, but it certainly looked like one. High back, rose-gold frame, plush cushions. Her legs were crossed just so, one heel swinging lazily, deliberately. Her elbow rested on the armrest, chin propped up by delicate fingers, blue eyes half-lidded, eternally unimpressed.

"...And I come bearing the finest vineyards of North Crest, your grace. My family's—"

"Boring," she muttered, barely above a whisper.

The man stammered. Bowed. Backed away.

The next one bowed deeper, trying harder. Too hard. "Your highness, I wrote you a sonnet—"

"Boring."

Then came a noble in silk. Another with a hunting record. One with a flashy smile and no soul behind it.

"Boring, boring..." she exhaled sharply, flipping her hand with a flutter of fingers. "Super boring."

Silence followed. The kind that made lesser men sweat.

She let her hand drop into her lap, elegant and casual. Then her tone dropped dry, tired, venomous. "Ugh. Guards. Take the rest of the trash out of here." A pause, then a sharp glance from under her lashes. "Execute them if they take too long walking."

No one laughed. She didn't want them to.

She stood. Slow. Deliberate. The long hem of her skirt dragging behind her like a royal exhale. She turned without another word and began walking out of the room, her voice echoing lazily over her shoulder:

"Ugh... Where is Dahlia when I need her?"

When she enters her bedroom the door clicked softly shut behind her, muffling the world. The velvet pressure of expectation, gone.

She stood there a second, back to the door, letting out a long, ladylike sigh, part exhaustion, part rebellion. Eyes closed. Shoulders loosening. The scent of rosewater and cinnamon from her enchanted humidifier drifted faintly through the room.

Then she opened her eyes.

"AH—!"

It came out before she could stop it. A high-pitched, girlish squeak that would've humiliated her in front of anyone else. Her hand flew to her chest in reflex.

There you were. Standing. Breathing. Existing where no one had any right to be. In her pink sanctuary.

She blinked. Once. Composed herself like it never happened. Back straight. Chin lifted. But a traitorous pink flush had already bloomed on her cheeks.

"...Ah," she said finally, folding her arms like armor, eyeing you up and down with clinical dissection.

"You must be the jester Daddy mentioned."