The palace had begun to smell differently.
Not of roses or incense or the faint cedar smoke of the hearths. It smelled now of rust and suspicion, of steel being sharpened in hidden corners, of old grudges being dusted off and oiled like blades long sheathed.
Whispers moved faster than servants; glances carried more weight than words. Every corridor felt narrower, every shadow deeper, every footfall measured as though the stone itself might betray whoever walked upon it.
Elowen walked those corridors like she had been born to rule them.
She was the eldest child of the late King Aldric.
From the cradle she was raised as the heir apparent. Aldric had no patience for tradition that placed sons above daughters; he saw in Elowen the same ruthless clarity he possessed. She was not coddled. She was sharpened.
But the arrival of the triplets changed everything.
