The moon cast a soft, silvery glow through the sheer curtains of Roselia's chamber, painting the room in a gentle, ethereal light. The air was still, save for the occasional rustle of fabric as Roselia shifted on the edge of her bed. She wore a delicate nightgown, its pale fabric pooling around her slender frame as she sat in quiet contemplation.

Her gaze was fixed on the balcony beyond, where moonlight danced on the marble floor and cast intricate patterns across the ornate railing. The night air was cool against her skin, carrying with it the faint scent of jasmine and distant whispers of the kingdom below. Although maids often come to her chambers offering their help at the king's command, she consistently refuses the assistance offered by the maids sent to attend to her needs. Each time they knock softly on her chamber door, she politely declines their aid, citing a desire for solitude and self-reliance.