If there was one thing the servants of the Nevareth palace understood better than scrubbing frost-kissed marble, it was the sacred art of gossip. It was their true currency, more valuable than gold and significantly more flammable.
And it began, as all great catastrophes do, in the laundry rooms. Where else could whispers properly fester but among the steam, the soap, and the rhythmic, soul-crushing scrubbing of inexplicable bloodstains from imperial linens?
"Psst." Marta's voice dropped to a conspiratorial hush as she wrung out a pillowcase with the violence of someone strangling a goose. "Did you hear? About the new one. The... Fire Queen."
Beside her, young Lena glanced toward the doorway with the practiced paranoia of a spy in a den of vipers. Coast was clear. "What about her?" she breathed, leaning in.
