Theron turned his head at last, his gaze settling on Rosalyn.
She looked… off. A strand of hair had slipped loose from its perfect arrangement, her posture a shade less rigid than usual, the sharp polish she wore like armor faintly cracked.
"I would mind it," he said evenly, "if my future wife chose to think before making accusations this… preposterous."
There was no heat in his tone—only a quiet, cutting clarity.
Rosalyn stared at him, and something in that unshaken composure made her own begin to fray. Before her grandmother, she had never needed to maintain a mask—but now, it slipped all the same.
"They saw light, Your Highness," she shot back, her voice tightening despite herself. "And there is only one person in this kingdom who can turn light into fire."
A beat.
Her eyes locked onto his, sharp again—but this time, edged with something closer to desperation than control.
"That person is you."
