The letter from my father had drawn a line. The whispers of systems had defined the battlefield. Now, I began the work.
My life became a meticulous, triple-layered construct. On the surface, I was the perfectly managed asset: Lady Rosalind Thorne, diligently attending lectures, taking polite but minimal notes, eating sparingly in the refectory, and retiring to her room early. I was a ghost in fine linen, leaving no ripple, generating no new scandal. It was the low profile my father demanded, and it made me nearly invisible.
Beneath that placid surface, two secret engines churned.
