It didn't take long before the servants noticed the sound.
Not Rosina's own maids—those she had bound to silence, threatened into obedience, forbidden to speak of anything they had seen or heard—but the unlucky few who happened to be passing through the Princess's Wing at the wrong moment.
The Princess's Wing sat apart from the Main Wing, farther still from the Monarch's Wing where Roen now lived. Even so, the noise carried. Not only the air-splitting thunder of the igniser's shot, but the dread that followed—the brittle hush left in its wake, as if the palace itself recoiled without knowing why.
Two days after Rosina had landed her first perfect shot—eight days after she had first picked up an igniser, the whispers reached her brother.
When Roen came, he didn't send for her. He was already waiting in the sitting room by the time she heard the front door close.
Rosina had hidden the igniser in her wardrobe, nested in its velvet-lined case, but just one look in his eyes told her the effort was wasted. Had he seen the half-burnt wooden targets still standing in the back garden, she suspected his expression would have gone from stern to something far darker.
Wordlessly, she climbed to her chamber, carrying the heavy case down to him. By the time she set it on the low table between them, his gaze hadn't shifted from the shiny lacquered surface. He didn't even open it.
"Rosina," he said, "tell me exactly what you've been doing with this."
Rosina had planned her training carefully—timing her practice, angling herself in the back garden. But she hadn't expected the ignisers to be that loud. Books and reality, it seemed, lived worlds apart. So of course, she hadn't planned what to say if her brother caught her.
"I've been practicing," she said on tiptoe.
That pulled his gaze to her. The blue of his eyes had gone cold. "Practicing?" His tone wavered, thin cracks of anger showing beneath his restraint. "Why would you—a princess—want to practice with this?"
It was the first time Rosina had ever seen Roen lose his composure with her. She drew a slow breath, then spoke the words she knew would have to be said sooner or later.
"I want to become an Ignisant, Roen."
The silence that followed was heavier than any shouted word. His stare alone seemed to press the air still. With a flick of his hand, he dismissed the maids waiting at the threshold. Their footsteps retreated, muffled against the rugs.
"Rosina," he said, low, deliberate, "tell me this is just for amusement."
"It's not," she said, clear, blunt.
He rose from the couch then. "What exactly has gotten into you?"
"I want to shoot well. And I want to join the Ignis Corps."
He stared at her, disbelief raw in his throat. "Was it Rosette Liane who fed you this mad idea?"
"No," she countered instantly. "This has nothing to do with Rosette. I decided this myself."
"You will stop this now." His voice cut clean. "Weapons, especially this one—" he pointed sharply at the case—"are dangerous. You have no gear, no training, no instructor. You can't even hold it properly."
"Then get me those things. I can hold it now. I've read carefully. I've followed every instruction, taken every precaution."
The retort only hardened Roen's expression. "No." The word fell absolute. "I'm taking this with me. And you will forget it."
"Why?" Her voice snapped up.
"Because they're dangerous," he snapped back, louder.
"And they're useful," she returned coldly. "For taking down anyone who dares threaten your rule—or your throne."
Something changed in Roen's face then. In that moment, he wasn't sure it was still his sister standing before him.
"This conversation is over," he said at last.
He lifted the case, his hands steady but trembling faintly at the edges. When he left, the door closed with a muted click, leaving her in a room that seemed to shrink around her.
But Roen didn't stay away for long.
A few days later, as the sun climbed over the eastern palace walls, his assistant appeared at Rosina's doors. The assistant carried a bouquet of white roses—fresh, full-bloomed, the last drops of dew still clinging to their petals.
Rosina saw the flowers before she saw her brother. That morning, he looked calmer, the sharpness in his face gone. When she stepped into the sitting room, her smile was already in place, as though the quarrel from days before had been quietly folded and put away, tucked into some drawer neither of them intended to open again.
The servant passed the bouquet to Rosina's maid, and together they carried it off, leaving the royal siblings alone on the couch. They sat side by side, both gazes turned toward the large painting hung before them.
The painting had come from Loraque—a gift from its Crown Prince, sent with his carefully written letters when talk of marriage between their kingdoms began. A gesture of love, devotion, and promise, or so his letters claimed. But Rosina had decided it belonged in her sitting room rather than somewhere more intimate, like her bedchamber. She had no wish to fall asleep each night beneath the reminder of what awaited her: a foreign land, a husband she had never met, and the quiet, inevitable leaving of home.
It was a fine work, though not one that stirred her much. The scene depicted the Loraquian capital, Branine—a city built into a slope of snow-covered mountain, its rooftops and towers rising like white teeth under a pale sky. It was done entirely in tones of white and gray, save for the faint gold lights that gleamed in the windows.
A technically masterful piece, but dull, she thought. Cold. Not at all romantic.
Roen, she realized, had never noticed it before. Not in his previous visits, and certainly not the last time, when he had stormed into her sitting room in a fury. Now, though, his gaze lingered on it—the snowy city, the golden lights, the endless white.
But Roen wasn't studying the art. He was searching for words.
"I wasn't angry," Rosina said at last, breaking the quiet.
Roen turned to her. "I still wanted to apologize," he said softly.
"I love the flowers," she replied, smiling faintly.
That pulled a small smile from him as well.
"Rosina..." His hand reached for hers, closing around it gently. "I know I haven't been here for you often—not since..." He stopped, the pause heavy between them. "...since the funeral. But I'm here now. If you need me, I'll make the time."
"You already carry too much," she said, giving his hand a light squeeze. "The Bureaus, the war, the Crown... It's I who've done nothing to ease your burdens."
"Don't say that." He scolded her gently. "You've suffered enough."
Rosina only smirked faintly and looked away. Though she knew he meant something else entirely, her brother wasn't exactly wrong. Sitting around and being useless was its own kind of suffering. But she didn't want to spark another argument, not after last time. So she kept her silence.
At last, Roen shifted. "Loraque has sent word," he said. "They've reaffirmed their intent to uphold the marriage pact with us"—his gaze lifted to her—"with you."
The words left Rosina cold and still. "I understand," she murmured, her fingers curling on her lap. "Of course. I'm aware of my responsibility to honor the agreement."
"No." Roen's voice roughened, the words scraping on their way out. "That's not what I meant to say."
She looked at him, confused.
"Don't go to Loraque, Rosina." The words landed between them, fragile and thin as a plea.
Her eyes widened. In that instant, the King of Nivara was gone. All Rosina saw before her was her brother. She didn't know whether she should be relieved, frightened, or simply undone.
"But we would only make another enemy," she said.
"We won't," Roen replied firmly. "We'll give them an excuse they can't refuse—something that won't tear apart the trade agreements we've fought to keep."
Her brow furrowed. "But why, Roen? Why risk losing the agreements when they'll help us win this war? We'll need their steel for the swords, their lead for the—"
"Because I'm scared, Rosina." He cut her off, the words spilling out louder than he meant them to. "If something happened to you when you're there, alone... if anyone did anything to you—" His voice caught. "You're all I have left."
Something burned behind her eyes, her nose stinging as her hand tightened over his. "Then I won't go."
Relief flooded through him. "Then I'll work it out," Roen murmured, a shaky smile breaking across his face. "I'll find a way to deal with them."
But the smile faded as quickly as it came when Rosina spoke again. "Roen, I won't go—on one condition."
The calm drained from Roen's expression. He already knew what her condition would be. He didn't even ask—only held his breath, bracing for the words he didn't want to hear.
She said them anyway. "I want to join the Ignis Corps."
His voice rose at once. "Rosina—"
"I've studied them," she cut in calmly. "Every page of their training, every detail of the ignisers, even how the rounds are made. I want to fight for Nivara, Roen. I'm tired of being useless."
"Absolutely not." His tone roughened into gravel. "You have no place on the battlefield."
"But brother," she said softly, "I can't sit behind palace walls while others die at the front. If I'm staying in Nivara, then I'll spend my days on silk pillows, wasting hours in gardens and tea houses."
"That's exactly where you belong," he snapped. "Behind walls. Alive. Safe."
"Safe," she repeated, the word twisting into a bitter laugh that cracked in her throat. "Safe—while people die every day in the name of our peace and our throne. Fighting a war that began at a banquet meant to celebrate my engagement."
His shoulders trembled, as though he was holding himself together by sheer will. "Rosina, the Ignis Corps is a death sentence. You wouldn't even last a month."
"Then train me properly," she demanded. "Give me a mentor. Give me back my igniser."
Roen turned away, releasing her hand. "You're asking me to lose you in a different way."
Before her brother could react, Rosina rose from the couch and lowered herself to her knees, looking up at him. "I'm asking you to let me live as your weapon."
Roen stared down at her, shaken by surprise and frustration. His jaw tightened, working as though he wanted to speak but couldn't. When he finally forced the sound out, it came out low and final.
"No."
Her face tightened. But she didn't say another word. Not yet.
She let her brother leave her quarters that morning in silence, the refusal lingering between them heavier than the last time.