Ceryse Hightower moved through the Red Keep’s corridors with the practiced grace of a queen, though she wore no crown. She had learned long ago that power in court was not always declared—it was wielded in whispers, in glances, in the quiet steel beneath a soft smile.

Tonight was no different.

She felt the weight of watching eyes as she entered the feast, her golden skirts brushing the stone floor. Lords bowed, ladies curtsied, but she knew their courtesies meant little. She was the Dowager Princess, cast aside for another, yet still a Hightower—still a woman who knew her worth.

A voice broke through the hum of conversation.

“My lady,” a courtier murmured, bowing low. “You grace us with your presence.”

Ceryse merely lifted her goblet, offering a smile that did not quite reach her eyes. “Do I not always?”