For 5 years, she lived drugged and poisoned by the man who hated her, unable to remember who she truly was.

Until one day, she found the courage to run, riding for days until her body could no longer endure it.

On the other side of the kingdom, the Alpha King, blind for 5 years due to an inexplicable curse, trained relentlessly so no one would ever see his weakness. But in one miscalculated move, he fell to the ground. And it was in that exact moment that Destiny struck hard. She appeared out of nowhere, fainted, and tumbled off her horse right on top of him.

And the second their bodies touched, the impossible happened. He saw a flash of light for the first time since losing his sight.

The pain always came with the full moon. Rosalie woke with her hands pressed to her chest, trying to contain the feeling that something inside her wanted to tear through her skin from within. Cold sweat slid down her temples as she bit her lower lip until she tasted iron. She couldn't scream. Victor didn't tolerate weakness.

She slowly sat up on the narrow bed, the rough sheets clinging to her body, and looked through the cracked window of the cabin. The moon hung in the sky like a silver eye, watching, judging. Always the moon. Always that inexplicable agony that left her trembling and breathless, as if her own body were a prison she could never escape.

"Get up." Victor's voice cut through the silence like a blade. He stood leaning against the door frame, arms crossed, his face marked by scars he never explained. "It's time."

Rosalie didn't need to ask what for. Everyday the same routine. He brought the bitter liquid in a tin mug, watched her drink every drop, and left without another word. She used to ask what it was, why she had to drink it, why it burned all the way from her throat to her stomach. But questions only ever brought silence, or worse, that cold stare that made her feel even smaller than she already did.

"It's to keep you alive," he had said once years ago when she was 17 and naive enough to believe there might be some hidden kindness in him. "Stop complaining and drink." Now at 22, Rosalie no longer asked anything. She just obeyed.

She rose, her bare feet touching the cold wooden floor, and walked to the table where the mug waited. The sour smell hit her before she even picked it up, making her stomach twist. But she drank. She always drank. The taste scorched her throat, slid down like liquid fire, and she had to grip the table to keep from vomiting. Victor watched with dead eyes as if checking off a completed task and nothing more.

"Good," he said, taking the empty mug back. "There's firewood together and the roof is leaking again. Fix it before dark."

Rosalie nodded, her head still spinning, her body heavy, as if she had woken from a terrible dream. But it wasn't a dream. This was her life. This isolated cabin surrounded by trees that felt like they closed in tighter every day. This man who treated her like property, something he needed to keep functioning, but never truly alive. This suffocating routine that made her forget sometimes that anything existed beyond those rotting wooden walls.

She remembered nothing before 17. It was as though her life began the moment she woke in that cabin for the first time. Victor staring at her exactly the same way he stared now, as if she were a problem he didn't want, but was forced to handle.

"Who am I?" she had asked that first day, her voice trembling, fear making her hands shake. "Why am I here?"

"You're nobody," Victor had replied without even looking at her. "And you're here because I let you be."

5 years. 5 years since that day. And Rosalie still had no answers. Only doubts growing like weeds inside her chest, choking out any hope that somewhere, somehow there might be more than this, more than surviving in silence, swallowing questions that would never be answered.

She put on her worn dress, tied her black hair into a messy braid, and stepped out into the cutting cold of morning. The forest was too quiet. It always was, as if even the birds were afraid to make noise near that cabin. Rosalie grabbed the axe, leaning against the house and walked to the wood pile. Each strike against the logs reverberated through her bones, but she kept going. Because stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant remembering the pain from the night before, the feeling that something inside her was dying slowly, day after day.

The day passed in its numbing routine. Firewood, water from the well, patching the roof with the same old boards that never held for long, preparing the meager food Victor brought. And through it all, that persistent sensation that she was forgetting something important, something vital.

At night, when Victor returned, he carried the smell of alcohol with him. Rosalie was sitting near the weak fireplace, mending her dress when he stumbled in. He dropped a sack on the floor with a heavy thud. "Food," he muttered, his voice thick. "Make it last."

She nodded without looking up. But something about him was different tonight. Tense and frightened. Victor poured himself more to drink, his movements clumsy. Then he began talking to himself low as if he'd forgotten she was there. "Can't go on like this. It's not safe."

Rosalie lifted her gaze, watching him. "Five years keeping that damn girl alive. When will they notice?"

Her heart raced. "Victor," she said, her voice firmer than she felt. "Who are you talking about?"

He froze, the bottle halfway to his mouth. Then he turned to her slowly, his red-rimmed eyes struggling to focus. "You don't ask questions."

"I have a right to know." The words escaped before she could stop them, laced with a courage she didn't know she had. "Why do you keep me here? Who am I? Why?"

His hand struck her face hard enough to whip her head to the side. Rosalie gasped, the taste of blood flooding her mouth, tears springing instantly to her eyes. "You don't have any rights." Victor loomed over her now, a finger pointed in her face, eyes wild with rage and alcohol. "You're alive because I let you be. You eat because I allow it. Understand?"

Rosalie pressed her hand to her burning cheek. Tears running freely now. But for the first time, the emotion inside her wasn't only pain. It was anger. Deep visceral anger burning hotter than any blow. "I can't take this anymore," she whispered, her voice shaking but resolute. "Whatever you're hiding from me, I will find out."

And when I do, Victor lunged, grabbing her by the throat and slamming her against the wall. Rosalie fought, her nails digging into his arms. But he was stronger. He always had been. "You won't find out anything," he growled, his face so close she could see the pulsing veins on his forehead. "Because you're not leaving ever."

He shoved her away and Rosalie collapsed on the floor, coughing, clutching her throat. Victor staggered backward a few steps, rubbing his face. "I need air," he muttered to himself. Then he looked at her, exhausted. "Tomorrow you'll drink your medicine and you'll be quiet like always." He walked out, leaving the door ajar.

Rosalie stayed there, kneeling, her heart pounding violently. She could hear him outside stumbling, talking to himself again. "The queen will kill me if I fail. Shouldn't have agreed to this. 5 years is too long. If she remembers who she is, 'Queen'," he said. "Queen." And if she remembers who she is. A chill seeped through Rosalie's veins. She had been someone before all this, before Victor, before the cabin, before the forgetting, and someone, a queen, wanted her to stay forgotten.

Minutes passed. Victor's muttering faded into heavy snores. He had passed out. Rosalie slowly stood, her legs trembling. She approached the door and peeked outside. Victor lay sprawled beside the dead fire. An empty bottle rolled near his hand, completely unconscious. The door was open. It was now or never.

She ran back inside, grabbed the thickest cloak she owned, and wrapped a few pieces of hard bread in a cloth. Her hands shook so much she almost dropped everything. Victor's horse was tied near the cabin, an old, ill-tempered animal, but it was her only chance. Rosalie untied him with trembling fingers, whispering silent apologies as she climbed onto his back. She didn't know where to go. She had no map, no plan, nothing except the instinct screaming in her mind, "Run!"

So, she ran. The horse pushed through the forest in a rough gallop. Branches scratching her face and arms, the cold cutting through her thin dress. Rosalie held on tightly, tears burning her eyes. From fear or relief, she couldn't tell. She rode for hours, maybe days. Time lost meaning, measured only by hooves striking the ground and the ache in her muscles. She stopped only when absolutely necessary, drinking from icy streams, eating berries she prayed weren't poisonous. The moon followed her as if guiding her somewhere.

On the third day, the horse stumbled. Rosalie didn't see the twisted route crossing the path. The animal lurched violently, and then she was falling, the world spinning in a blur of green and brown before she struck something solid. Not the ground. Hands. Hands that caught her with steady strength, keeping her from hitting the earth.

Rosalie lifted her gaze, dizzy, her whole body aching, and she found herself staring at the most beautiful face she had ever seen. No, not just beautiful, unsettling in its perfection. A sharp jaw, defined lips, dark hair falling in unruly waves past broad shoulders. But it was his eyes that stole her breath. Gray, empty, fixed on a point beyond her. He was blind. And yet the way he held her, as if he knew exactly where every inch of her body was, as if he could see her more clearly than anyone with sight, sent her heartbeat into chaos for reasons she didn't understand.

"Who are you?" His voice was deep, rough, and carried a command that made even the wind hesitate. Rosalie tried to speak, but her throat was too dry. She tried to pull away, but his arms didn't give. They weren't aggressive. Just steady. As if she were something precious, he refused to drop.

"She fell out of nowhere, your majesty," a male voice said nearby. Rosalie turned her head and saw a tall man in polished armor watching the scene with a mix of surprise and caution. "She came out of the forest riding like she was fleeing hell itself."

"Your Majesty." The title echoed in Rosalie's mind like a distant bell.

"She's injured," the king said. Not a question. His fingers brushed her cheek lightly, touching the exact spot where Victor had struck her. She shivered, not from pain, but from something entirely different. Something that set her whole body alight in a way she had never felt before. "We'll take her to the palace."

"Your Majesty, we don't know who she is," the warrior protested. "She could be dangerous."

"I said," the king cut in, his voice dropping to a tone that allowed no argument. "We'll take her to the palace."

And then it happened. The king drew in a deep breath as if testing the air. His entire body went rigid. His arms tightened around Rosalie, not painfully, but with need, as if letting her go would physically hurt him. Rosalie stared confused as his expression changed. His lips parted slightly, his breathing grew heavier. And then he did something completely unexpected. He pressed his face into her neck.

Rosalie froze, every muscle locking. She should push him away, scream, do anything besides stand there paralyzed as he inhaled her scent like it was the most important thing in the world. "Who are you?" he murmured against her skin, his voice so low she barely heard it.

Before Rosalie could make sense of anything, darkness pulled her under and she collapsed in his arms, unconscious.

Rosalie woke without knowing where she was. The ceiling above her was far too high. The bed was far too soft. The silence was far too clean. No Victor snoring, no creek of rotten wood, no moldy smell clinging to her throat. She sat up abruptly, heart racing. And then the pain came. Not the familiar ache the moon brought, but something different. Muscles she hadn't even known she had hurt. Scratches burned. Her face throbbed where Victor had hit her days ago. Days? How many days?

The memory returned in violent flashes. The escape, the endless forest, the horse stumbling, the fall, and then hands. Those steady hands that kept her from shattering against the ground. And that face, those gray eyes that saw nothing and yet somehow had seen everything in her.

The door opened. Rosalie shrank back on instinct, clutching the sheets to her body as a useless shield. But it was only a woman, older, kind-faced, carrying a tray that smelled like real food.

"Ah, thank the gods you're awake." The woman smiled, setting the tray on a nearby table. "I was starting to worry. 3 days is a long time."

3 days. Rosalie tried to get up, but the world spun.

"Dear," the woman helped her sit, propping pillows behind her back. "You rode yourself nearly to death, according to the trackers. You need to recover."

"Where am I?" Rosalie's voice came out hoarse, scraping in her throat.

"In the central palace of Thornhaven, seat of sovereign king Aspen, ruler of all the wolf realms." The woman picked up a mug from the tray and offered it. "Broth, it will help."

Rosalie didn't take it. She didn't trust it. Wolf realms, Rosalie thought, not understanding what that was supposed to mean. "Why did they bring me here?"

"Because the king ordered it." The woman set the mug within her reach. "My name is Martha. I look after the rooms in this wing. And you are?"

Rosalie didn't answer. Martha didn't seem offended. She just nodded as if she understood. "When you're ready, the king would like to see you, but there's no rush. Eat. Rest. You're safe here."

Safe? The words sounded so strange that Rosalie almost laughed.

When Martha left, Rosalie just stared at the tray. Fresh bread, fruits she had never seen before, meat that smelled of spices. Her stomach growled, betraying her. She picked up the bread and sniffed it. Nothing odd. She bit into it. Flavor exploded on her tongue. Butter, salt, something sweet. She ate like a starving animal, not caring about crumbs or dignity.

In another part of the palace, Aspen stood in his private chambers, hands braced on the cold stone of the window, face turned toward a sun he hadn't seen in 5 years. The blindness had come without warning. One night, he slept as always. The next morning, the world was nothing but darkness. He had consulted every elder, every healer, every wise person he could find. Most had no answers. But one, the oldest, the wisest, had said something Aspen never forgot.

"This is not an illness, your majesty. It is a curse. Someone ripped something from you. And until you discover what it was, you will remain in the dark."

5 years. 5 years of training his body to compensate. Sharpening senses other wolves didn't even know they had. Becoming even more feared precisely because no one understood how a blind king could be so lethal. But there was one thing no training could cure. The emptiness. Aspen felt as though a part of him had been torn out that night. As if there were a hole in his chest that nothing, no victory, no conquest, no woman could fill until 3 days ago. He could still smell her, sweet with a wild edge like flowers growing out of scorched earth. And when he held her, gods, when he held her, his wolf had roared in a way that defied explanation. Mine. The word had come from somewhere deep, primal, a recognition that made no logical sense. But she was human, frightened, hurt. And Aspen didn't understand what that meant. He only knew that the idea of letting her go, of allowing her to walk away, made his chest tighten with something close to physical pain.

"Your Majesty," Gideon, his most loyal warrior, entered without knocking. He was one of the few permitted to do that. "She's awake."

Aspen felt something clench inside him. He didn't show it. "And she's scared, suspicious. Martha said she barely speaks." Gideon paused. "What do you intend to do with her?"

"I don't know yet." People are talking, especially Lady Beatatric and Queen Cassandra. They arrived yesterday for the final wedding preparations, and they are not pleased with the situation. Aspen knew that situation very well. Cassandra, queen consort of the kingdom of Dawnfell, one of the realms under his rule, had been pushing for that alliance for months. She had offered her daughter Beatatrice as his future wife. And Aspen had accepted because it made political sense, not because he felt anything, even though Lady Beatatrice was very kind and gentle with people. And the king respected that in her.

Rosalie was exploring the room, testing the door unlocked, checking the window far too high, searching for exits. When Martha returned, "The king is waiting for you."

Rosalie didn't want to go. Every instinct screamed at her to stay where she was, to lock the door, to hide until everyone forgot she existed. But Martha was already holding out clean clothes. A dark blue dress, simple but infinitely better than the rags she had worn for years. "Put this on," Martha said gently. "Don't take too long. The king is not a man who waits."

Rosalie dressed in silence, fingers trembling on the ties of the dress. When she finished, she followed Martha through endless corridors. She tried to memorize every door, every turn. Martha stopped before a dark wooden door and knocked.

"Come in."

That voice. Rosalie felt something run down her spine. Not just fear, but something more unsettling. Something that made her whole body wake up in a way she didn't understand. The door opened. The room was large. A crackling fireplace, shelves full of books, maps spread across a heavy table, and near the window, with his back to them, stood the man himself, sovereign king Aspen. Even without seeing his face, Rosalie felt the weight of his presence. The way he filled the space, not with arrogance, but with something deeper. Authority that came from the bone, not from a crown.

"You may leave us, Martha." The maid curtsied and slipped out, closing the door behind her with a soft click that sounded to Rosalie like it was sealing her fate.

Silence stretched. Rosalie stood near the door, fists clenched, ready to run if she had to.

"You're afraid of me." He still hadn't turned. "I can feel it."

Rosalie didn't answer. What could she say? That yes, she was afraid. Aspen turned slowly, and Rosalie had to fight the urge to step back. He was even more striking than the last time she'd seen him. Tall, built like a warrior who had spent years on the battlefield. Broad shoulders under a black tunic, a sharply cut jaw, dark hair falling to his shoulders in a way that should have looked careless, but somehow just made him more handsome. And those eyes, empty and yet somehow fixed exactly where she stood.

"Come closer," he said. It wasn't a request, but it wasn't the brutal command Victor used either. It was something in between, something that made her body want to obey, even while her mind screamed, "Danger."

Rosalie stepped forward. She stopped while there was still a safe distance between them. "Closer. Why?" The word slipped out before she could stop it. Something changed in his expression. Not quite a smile, maybe curiosity.

"Because I cannot see you, and I need to know how you ended up inside my lands." Rosalie hesitated, but she took a few more steps. Now she was close enough to feel the heat coming off him, to catch that scent of leather and something woody that made her head spin. Aspen raised his hand slowly. Rosalie tensed, bracing for a hit, but he only touched her face, fingers brushing the cheek still swollen where Victor had struck her, sliding along her jawline, pushing aside a strand of hair that had fallen across her eyes. The touch was exploratory, gentle in a way that made her chest ache more than any act of violence.

"Who did this?" His voice came out lower, thick with something that sounded like contained rage.

"No one important."

"Don't lie." His fingers trailed down to her neck, barely grazing her skin. Rosalie held her breath. "There are other marks, old ones. You've been hurt many times, for a very long time."

How did he know? How could he sense things she could barely see in the mirror?

"What does it matter?" Rosalie stepped away from his touch because if she kept letting him touch her like that, she'd do something foolish, like trust him. "I can't stay here. I don't know what you want from me, but neither do I."

The honesty in his answer caught her off guard. Aspen lowered his hand, but his empty eyes stayed fixed on her. "When I held you in that forest, something in me reacted. My wolf recognized you in a way I cannot explain."

Wolf? The word made something strange stir in her chest. A vibration, a recognition of her own. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I know you don't." He tilted his head as if listening to something beyond her words. "But you will because something tells me you're more than you appear to be. More than even you know."

Rosalie wanted to laugh or cry or both. "I'm no one. Just a girl Victor kept locked away. I have no memories. No past."

"No. Victor." The way he said the name sounded lethal.

"That's what he's called. The man who hurt you?" Rosalie didn't answer. She shouldn't have said his name.

"Where are you from?" Aspen pressed. "Which realm? Which village?"

"I don't know. I don't remember anything before I was 17. It's like my life started in his cabin." The words came out bitter. "And he never told me, never said where I came from. He just gave me that liquid every day." And she stopped. Too late.

"Liquid." Aspen's eyes narrowed. "What kind of liquid?"

"Bitter. It burned going down. He said it was to keep me alive." Rosalie wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold. "But I always felt sick afterward, weak, like something inside me was being smothered."

The silence that followed was heavy. Rosalie couldn't understand how she had managed to trust him enough to share her life so quickly. Aspen turned sharply, striding to the table where the maps lay scattered. His hands pressed into the wood hard enough to make his knuckles pale.

"How long ago did you run?" His voice was almost too controlled.

"3 days, maybe four. I lost track."

"And this liquid, have you drunk it since then?"

"No." Rosalie frowned. "Why does that matter?"

Aspen didn't answer right away. When he finally spoke again, there was something different in his tone. Something that sounded like hope. "Because it might explain many things."

Before Rosalie could ask what he meant, the door opened. A man walked in. The same warrior from the forest. Tall, a scar cutting across his face, armor gleaming. His gaze swept over Rosalie with caution before returning to the king.

"Your Majesty, Lady Beatatric and Queen Cassandra are waiting for you in the hall. The final preparations need to be discussed."

Aspen's shoulders tightened. "Tell them I'll be there soon, Gideon."

"They insisted it be now." Gideon hesitated. "And they mentioned they would like to meet the guest you brought from the forest."

The air grew heavier.

"Then let them meet her." Aspen turned to Rosalie and there was something protective in the way he positioned himself. "But make it clear, Gideon. She is my guest under my protection. Any disrespect to her will be treated as disrespect to me."

Gideon nodded and left. Rosalie looked at Aspen, confused. "Why are you doing this?"

Aspen was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was more controlled, more distant, "Because my instinct tells me you're in danger. And I don't ignore my instincts."

It wasn't the answer she had expected. It was practical, almost cold. "Instinct," Rosalie repeated, not sure whether she felt relieved or disappointed.

"You appeared in my forest, running from something, hurt, frightened." Aspen folded his arms, his posture turning even more rigid. "And there's something about you that doesn't add up. That liquid they gave you, your erased memories, all of it points to something bigger."

So that was it. Curiosity, maybe even political strategy, nothing personal. Why did that bother her?

"I can't stay here," Rosalie said more to herself than to him. "I have nothing to offer."

"I have nothing to offer," Aspen cut in. "I'm just someone who needs answers." And I have the means to help you find them. Stay until you do. Then you decide what you want to do."

It was logical, practical, no empty promises or pretty words. Rosalie wanted to refuse. She wanted to cling to what little pride she had left. But the truth was, she had nowhere to go. Victor could be looking for her. And alone in the forest, she wouldn't last a week.

"How long?" she asked.

"As long as you need."

"One week," Rosalie corrected firm. "After that, I'm leaving."

Aspen didn't seem pleased with that answer, but he nodded. "One week then." And he turned away, ending the conversation.

Rosalie stayed where she was, feeling something strange tighten in her chest. It wasn't gratitude. It was something more confusing, as if some part of her had wanted him to say something else, anything else. But he didn't.

The great hall was intimidating in a way Rosalie had not expected. Martha had brought her there after helping her change into something slightly more formal, but still simple. Rosalie followed the maid through the corridors, acutely aware of every curious look from the servants who passed. When the double doors of the hall opened, Rosalie had to fight the urge to step back. The space was vast, a high ceiling supported by dark stone columns, rich tapestries covering the walls, and in the center, a long table where several people were already seated.

Rosalie recognized Aspen immediately. He sat at the head of the table, posture straight, expression neutral, but his head turned slightly when she entered, as if he could sense her presence even from a distance. Beside him sat a woman, beautiful in a way that felt carefully constructed, blonde hair braided in an elaborate style, a gentle smile as she spoke with Aspen, her hand resting lightly on his arm. Rosalie felt something strange tighten in her chest.

"That is Lady Beatatric Thornwell," Martha whispered at her side. "Daughter of Queen Cassandra, the king's future wife."

Wife. The word echoed in Rosalie's mind in a disturbing way. Of course. Of course he had a fiancée. Martha guided her to a seat halfway down the table. Not close to the head, but not relegated to the far end either. A neutral place. Safe.

Rosalie sat, keeping her hands in her lap, trying to make herself invisible. But then another woman entered, older than Beatatrice, but still beautiful. Dark hair pinned into an intricate bun, crimson dress, a delicate crown on her head, and eyes that swept the hall with the confidence of someone used to being obeyed. Queen Cassandra. She walked gracefully to her chair beside Beatatrice, offering polite smiles to those present. But when her eyes passed over Rosalie, the world stopped. Cassandra froze only for a fraction of a second. But Rosalie saw everything. She saw the shock tear through that composed mask, saw those eyes widen, saw the color drain completely from her face, and then as quickly as it came, the reaction was gone. The mask slipped back into place. Perfect. Impenetrable. But Rosalie had felt it. That recognition. That barely disguised terror.

"She knows me." The thought came from somewhere deep, instinctive. This woman knew who she was, and she was terrified to see her there. Cassandra sat down slowly, her hands smoothing her dress with movements that tried to appear casual, but were far too stiff. Beatrice leaned toward her, whispering something Rosalie could not hear. The queen replied with something, but her eyes returned to Rosalie, and there was calculation there. Assessment, as if she were trying to decide what to do.

Dinner began. Dishes were served, meats, vegetables, breads. Rosalie tried to eat, but every bite seemed to turn to ash in her mouth because she could feel Cassandra's eyes on her constantly. And Aspen. Aspen seemed to feel the tension, too. His jaw was tight, his fingers drumming lightly on the table. Beatatrice spoke animatedly at his side, but he barely seemed to hear her.

A servant approached Rosalie, holding a pitcher. "Wine, my lady."

Rosalie was about to refuse when she noticed something odd. The servant had not offered wine to anyone else around her, only to her. And when she looked more closely, she saw how his fingers trembled, how he avoided her gaze, staring at a point somewhere past her shoulder.

"No, thank you. I insist." He was already filling her goblet. "It is a special vintage. Queen Cassandra requested it be served to the guests."

The queen. Rosalie looked at Cassandra. The woman was not staring directly at her, but there was tension in her posture. A sense of expectation. Rosalie lifted the goblet, pretending to bring it to her lips. The liquid brushed her mouth, but she did not swallow. She only wet her lips, keeping the goblet raised as if savoring the wine slowly. Her eyes met Cassandra's across the table. The queen was watching, waiting. There was expectation in her gaze, a tightness that made the air feel heavy.

Rosalie lowered the goblet, pretending to appreciate the taste. And then, as if by accident, she let it slip slightly from her fingers. The wine spilled across the table, staining the pale tablecloth. "Oh." She stood quickly, making a great fuss. "I'm so sorry."

Servants rushed to clean up. Martha appeared with cloths, making soothing gestures. And in the middle of the chaos, Rosalie saw it. Cassandra's face, the mask slipping for just a heartbeat. It was not irritation over the spilled wine. It was frustration. And Rosalie knew there had been something in that wine.

Rosalie could not sleep. Lying in the bed that was far too soft, staring at the ceiling that was far too ornate, her mind spun in endless circles. Why did the queen recognize me? What was in that wine? And then the connection hit her like lightning. Victor, his drunken words muttered outside the cabin. "The queen will kill me if..." The queen. Cassandra. It was the same person. It had to be.

Rosalie sat up abruptly, her heart racing. Victor worked for Cassandra. He had kept her locked up, doped with that horrible liquid on her orders. Rosalie could not shake that thought from her mind. But why? Who was she that a queen would care? That she would arrange to keep her imprisoned for 5 years? That she would try to poison her the moment she saw her in the palace? The questions piled up, each more terrifying than the last, suffocating her in that large room that suddenly felt far too small.

Rosalie got up, pulling on a robe Martha had left, and walked to the door. The guards were talking quietly on the other side, but they did not sound particularly alert. She opened the door slowly.

"My lady," one of them turned.

"I cannot sleep," Rosalie said, her voice coming out calmer than she felt. "I need some air. I'm going to walk in the gardens."

The guards exchanged a look. "We should escort you."

"No." The word came out firmer. "I need to be alone. Please." There was something in her tone, perhaps desperation, perhaps a quiet authority she had not known she possessed, that made them hesitate and then nod.

Rosalie walked barefoot through the silent corridors, following her instincts until she found a door that led outside. The palace's inner garden was vast, surrounded by high walls filled with ancient trees and flowers that gleamed silver under the moonlight. The moon. Rosalie looked up, feeling that familiar pull, that ache in her chest that always came, but now felt different. Less like pain, more alive, as if something inside her were finally breathing after years of being smothered. She walked to a stone bench near a fountain and sat, wrapping her arms around her knees.

"I am losing my mind," she thought. "I must be. Queens do not conspire against insignificant girls. Kings do not rescue strangers from the forest. None of this makes sense."

"You should be asleep."

Rosalie jumped, spinning around. Aspen stood a few paces away, appearing out of nowhere like a shadow. He wore only a simple tunic, his hair loose, his feet bare.

"I could say the same to you," Rosalie replied, her heart still pounding from the fright. "I do not sleep much."

He walked to the bench, but did not sit. He simply stood there, far too close for comfort. "The darkness does not change whether my eyes are open or closed." There was something painful in those words. Something that made Rosalie's chest tighten.

"I did not mean..."

"Do not apologize." Aspen tilted his head as if listening to something beyond her voice. "You are frightened. I can feel it."

"I am not." Rosalie lied.

"Your heart is beating too fast. Your breathing is uneven." He took a step closer. "And you smell of fear."

How did he do that? How did he know so much just by sensing? Aspen stayed silent for a moment, then asked. "Tonight at dinner, you were frightened. Of what?"

Rosalie hesitated. She could not simply say, "I think the queen tried to poison me." He would think she was insane, paranoid, or worse, that she was trying to stir trouble between him and his future mother-in-law.

"Nothing specific," she said at last. "Just too many people, too many eyes. I spent 5 years seeing only one person." It was not a complete lie, but it was not the whole truth either.

Aspen did not sound convinced. "You spilled the wine."

Rosalie felt her blood run cold. He had noticed. Of course, he had. "It was an accident."

"Was it?" He took another step, now close enough that she could feel his warmth. "Because it seemed very deliberate."

Rosalie swallowed hard. "Why does it matter?"

"Because you are not good at lying." Aspen tilted his head. "Your heart speeds up when you lie. Your breathing changes. And right now, right now, you are terrified that I will find out what you are hiding."

Damn it. How could he read her so easily?

"I am not hiding anything." Rosalie, the way he said her name, low, almost intimate, made something in her chest twist. "If something frightened you at that dinner, I need to know. You are under my protection, and I cannot protect you if I do not know from what."

Rosalie wanted to tell him. She wanted to say everything about the servant, about the wine, about the way Cassandra had watched her. But what if he did not believe her? What if he thought she was trying to sabotage his marriage?

"It is just hard to trust," she said finally, her voice coming out weaker. "I spent years learning that trusting people only leads to pain."

Aspen was quiet for a long moment. Then surprisingly, he stepped back. He put a bit of distance between them. "I understand," he said, his voice softer now. "But when you are ready to trust. I will be here."

They fell silent for a while, simply existing in the same space. Rosalie watched the moon. They stayed in silence for some time, just sharing the same air. Rosalie watched the moon. Aspen watched. What? She did not know. Perhaps he was only listening, sensing.

"May I ask you a question?" Rosalie said at last.

"You may?" She hesitated, then settled on the question that had truly haunted her since she first saw him. "How did you go blind?"

Aspen did not seem surprised by the question. He only tilted his head slightly as if deciding how much to reveal. "It happened 5 years ago," he said, his voice too neutral. "One night I went to sleep seeing. The next morning the world was darkness." Rosalie's chest tightened. "No warning, no pain, nothing, just emptiness." He paused. "I consulted every healer, every wise man. Most had no answers, but one elder said it was not an illness."

"Then what?"

"A curse." The word came out heavy. "He said someone took something from me. And that until I discovered what it was, I would remain in the dark."

Rosalie turned that over in her mind. A curse. Someone had done this to him on purpose.

"And you accepted it?"

Aspen let out a sound that almost resembled a laugh, but without any humor. "I had no choice. I cannot undo what I do not understand." He turned his face toward her. "But I learned to live with it. To become stronger because of it. To make sure no one sees weakness where there is only limitation." There was pride in those words, but also pain. An old deep pain that he hid.

"Well, you do not seem weak," Rosalie said softly. "You seem terrifying."

Actually, this time he really smiled. A small smile, but genuine. "Terrifying. You move as if you can see. As if you know exactly where everything is. It is unsettling."

"Unsettling?" He repeated as if tasting the word. "No one has ever called me that before."

"What do they call you then?" Fearsome, relentless, some say monstrous. He shrugged, but never unsettling. Rosalie did not know why, but that made her smile, too. "Well, you are unsettling and impressive."

Aspen was quiet for a moment, then so softly, she almost missed it. "Thank you."

The silence that followed was not uncomfortable. It was simply there, shared. It was Rosalie who finally stood. "I should go back," she said, her voice more shaky than she would have liked.

Aspen nodded, rising as well. "I will escort you."

"You do not need..."

"I will escort you," he repeated in a tone that allowed no argument. They walked in silence through the gardens back toward the palace. Rosalie was acutely aware of every inch of distance between them, of how easy it would be to just reach out, touch him, but she did not.

When they reached the door that led into the inner corridors, Rosalie turned to thank him and tripped. Her barefoot caught on the hem of her robe, and she lost her balance completely. She pitched forward, bracing herself for the sharp impact with the stone floor. But arms caught her, strong, steady, wrapping around her before she could fall. Rosalie gasped, her hands instinctively clutching at his tunic for balance. And suddenly, she was pressed against his chest, could feel the heat radiating from his body, his heartbeat racing just as fast as hers.

Aspen did not let her go. His arms stayed around her, holding her to him in a way that was not only about keeping her from falling. It was something else, something deeper, more necessary. "You need to be more careful," he murmured, his voice rough, his lips so close to her forehead she could feel his breath against her skin.

Rosalie lifted her gaze, and the world stopped. They were so close. She could see every detail of his face, the strong line of his jaw, his parted lips, the small scars marking his skin, and those eyes. Even without sight, they seemed to look straight through her. Aspen's hand slid up, his fingers brushing her cheek, pushing aside a strand of hair that had fallen over her eyes, drifting down along her jawline, stilling at the base of her neck, where her pulse hammered wildly.

"Your heart," he whispered, his thumb pressing lightly. "It is racing again."

Rosalie could not breathe, could not think. All that existed was his warmth, his scent, the impossible nearness that made every cell in her body scream for something she did not understand, but desperately wanted. Aspen leaned in just a fraction, then another, and Rosalie knew, knew with absolute certainty that if she did not step away now, something would change irreversibly. With the last drop of willpower she had, she pressed her hand against his chest. "No," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I cannot."

Aspen closed his eyes, his jaw clenching hard, but he did not come any closer. After a moment that felt like an eternity, he stepped back. Let his arms fall away. Took one step away from her. "You are right," he said, his voice painfully controlled. "Painful and too calm."

Rosalie felt her knees go weak, her whole body trembling with something she could not name, but she forced herself to step back. Then another step. "Good night, your majesty." She managed. And then she ran. She ran through the corridors, past the startled guards, and locked herself in her room. Only when the door was closed and bolted did she allow herself to collapse. She pressed her back to the wood and slid down until she was sitting on the floor, her heart still hammering, her body still burning everywhere he had touched. What was happening to her? Why did her body react like that? Why did his mere nearness make everything inside her want to surrender?

Rosalie wrapped her arms around her knees, looking out at the moon shining in the sky. And for the first time in her life, she felt something other than pain when she looked at it. She felt awakening.

Rosalie woke with her body on fire. It was not a fever. It was not an illness. It was something else. A heat rising from inside, pulsing beneath her skin like live embers. She sat up abruptly in bed, gasping for air. Her hands pressed over her chest where that strange sensation always lived. But today, it was worse. Much worse.

Morning light filtered through the window, and she blinked, trying to focus. But everything looked far too intense. Colors were sharper. Every carved detail in the wooden furniture jumped out at her with such clarity it made her dizzy. And the sounds. Gods, the sounds. She could hear everything. The rustle of leaves in the garden three floors below. Footsteps echoing in distant corridors. Whispered conversations she should never have been able to catch. It was as if the entire world had decided to shout in her ears at once.

Rosalie pressed her hands to her temples, pushing hard. "I'm losing my mind. That's it. I've finally gone mad."

Rosalie got out of bed, her legs trembling. The knock on the door made her jump.

"Lady Rosalie." Martha's voice. "I brought your breakfast."

Rosalie opened the door and the smell of food hit her with enough force to make her stomach twist. Not from hunger, from overload. As if every scent had been amplified a hundredfold.

"You're pale, dear." Martha stepped inside, setting the tray down on the table. "Did you sleep badly?"

"I did not sleep much," Rosalie admitted. "It was not a lie."

Martha studied her with those gentle eyes that always seem to see too much. "There is a meeting in the smaller hall in a few hours. The king requested your presence."

Rosalie's heart lurched. Why? "I do not know, but Lady Beatatric and Queen Cassandra will also be there." Martha straightened the pillows on the bed for no real reason. "Wear something appropriate and try to eat, even if it's just a little."

When Martha left, Rosalie looked at the tray. Fruit, bread, cheese. Everything smelled so strong it was almost painful. She forced herself to eat a few slices of apple. Each bite exploded on her tongue with flavors she had never noticed before. Far too sweet, far too tart, far too intense. What was happening to her?

The smaller hall was intimidating in a different way from the great hall, more intimate, more claustrophobic. A round table surrounded by red velvet chairs, tall windows letting in far too much light. Rosalie walked in and immediately felt the weight of several gazes on her. Aspen sat at the head of the table, posture straight, expression neutral. But when she entered, his head turned slightly, just a barely noticeable movement. But she saw it, and he felt her. She knew he did. To his right, Beatatrice smiled, a perfect practiced smile that never reached her eyes. She wore an ivory dress that made her look like a bride rehearsing for the big day. Cassandra sat beside her daughter, and when her eyes met Rosalie's, the cordial mask cracked for just a second, long enough for Rosalie to see the cold calculation behind it.

"Rosalie." Aspen's voice sliced through the silence. "Sit." There was an empty chair at his left, directly across from Beatatric. Rosalie walked toward it, hyper aware of every sound her steps made on the marble floor. When she sat, she realized how close she was to him. Far too close. She could feel the heat radiating from his body. Catch that scent she now recognized instantly. And he was tense. She could see it in the way his fingers gripped the arm of his chair, in the rigid line of his shoulders.

"Thank you for coming," Beatatrice said, her voice sweet as poisoned honey. "We wanted to get to know you better. After all, you are the king's special guest." The emphasis on guest did not go unnoticed.

"Lady Beatatric is right," Cassandra added, smiling in a way that was nowhere near genuine. "It is so rare for the king to bring strangers into the palace. You must be very special."

Rosalie did not answer. She simply kept her hands in her lap, trying to appear smaller than she was.

"So, Rosalie," Beatatrice went on, leaning forward slightly. "Tell us about yourself, your family, where you come from." It was a trap, far too obvious.

"There is not much to tell," Rosalie said, keeping her voice steady. "I do not remember my family. I do not know where I came from."

"How convenient. Lost memories, mysterious past. Sounds like something out of a bard's tale, don't you think?" Beatrice exchanged a look with her mother.

"Beatatrice." Aspen's voice was quiet, but laced with warning.

"Forgive me, my king." Beatatrice laid her hand over his on the table, a possessive gesture disguised as affection. "I am only curious about our guest."

Rosalie watched that hand on his and felt something hot and violent erupt in her chest. Something that wanted to rip those fingers away. Something that wanted to... She blinked, stunned by her own reaction. What is happening to me?

"Rosalie will stay with us for as long as she needs," Aspen said, pulling his hand out from under Beatric's with a movement that was casual but deliberate. The silence that followed was thick with tension.

"Of course," Cassandra said at last, her voice far too controlled. "Hospitality is a royal virtue after all."