The corridors of the royal wing smelled faintly of lilies and incense, a carefully curated fragrance meant to disguise the rot of politics that lingered beneath the marble. I adjusted the folds of my gown, its silken trail whispering across the floor as I walked. My ladies-in-waiting trailed behind me, murmuring, giggling, like a flock of dull birds.

They said the new court physician was to be presented today. A commoner, of all things.

My dear father, in his ever-deepening madness for novelty, had apparently decided that talent outweighed birthright. He called it progress. I called it decay.

When the doors opened to the small reception hall, I saw him, standing too straight, dressed too plainly, with eyes far too calm for someone in the presence of royalty. Veyne, they said his name was. I let my gaze wander from his worn hands to the scar at his temple. Not the sort of hands one should see in a palace.