Azalea's presence in the Royal Palace was like an old wound that had healed over but still ached when the weather turned. The Queen looked at her and saw the features of her dearest friend, whose laughing spirit had once been the only light in these marble corridors. But in that same moment, she remembered Berthold von Berge.

Azalea knew this story from snippets of whispers and her father’s rare, painful confessions in drunken ramblings. Her mother had married for love, believing in the nobility of an impoverished nobleman. But when illness began to consume her life, Berthold did not seek medicine - he sought profit. Using his access to the queen through his dying wife, he extorted funds, playing on his friend’s loyalty and grief. The money vanished into debt pits and taverns, while Azalea’s mother wasted away in poverty, all the while the queen believed she was paying for the best doctors in the land.

When the truth came out, it was too late. Her mother had died, and relations between the throne and the House of von Berge had turned to ashes.

“Lady von Berge, are you daydreaming again?” the lady-in-waiting’s voice interrupted Azalea’s thoughts.

She stood in the gallery, watching the preparations. Today, the palace was expecting a special guest - the Duke of Verdun and his family. The duke was returning after a ten-year stay in the neighboring empire. Therefore, interest in him was heightened.

“I’m sorry, Countess. I was lost in thought about the text I was translating this morning.”

“You should be thinking about how not to step on the hem of your own dress when the Duke arrives,” the lady retorted dryly. “Her Majesty has allowed you to remain here solely out of respect for your mother’s memory, but do not forget your place.”

The woman snorted. Azalea knew that look. Almost everyone looked at her that way. Always, when the royal family wasn’t watching. That was why Azalea always remembered. Her surname evoked nothing but hostility and pity. For that reason, she always bowed her head.

The doors to the main hall swung open. The trumpets announced the arrival of the guests.

Azalea spotted her immediately. Ingrid von Verdun. She was walking beside her father, radiating the kind of confidence possessed only by those who have never known want. Her golden hair caught the light from the chandeliers, and her smile was flawless, calculated, noble.

Azalea turned her gaze to Gerhard. He stood beside his mother, and his face, usually so lively and expressive, suddenly froze. But it wasn’t boredom. A spark of interest flashed in his eyes that Azalea had never seen before.

When Gerhard stepped toward Ingrid and bent to kiss her hand, Azalea felt a chill run down her spine. It wasn’t just a formal greeting. It was the beginning of the end of her small, fragile world.

“Look at that couple,” whispered one of the ladies-in-waiting behind Azalea. “A true rose of Verdun. Not like some weeds that have found their way into the bouquet by mistake.”

A quiet chuckle rippled through the women. The walls seemed to close in, and all the oxygen seemed to vanish from the air.

Azalea didn’t answer. She saw Gerhard whisper something to Ingrid, and she laughed lightly, musically. Just the way she used to laugh in the quiet of the library. Only now, that joy didn’t belong to her.

Her heart ached. Not out of hatred for Ingrid. She was beautiful and innocent in her triumph. But from the realization of her own complete, absolute uselessness. If her friendship with the prince had once been her shield, now that shield was melting before her eyes.

She took a step back, blending into the shadow of the column. The shadows that was her true place. The daughter of a man who had deceived the queen could not claim a place in the light.

“The fairy tale is over,” she whispered to herself, repeating the words that her father had not yet spoken, but which already hung in the heavy air of the hall. “You no longer belong here, Azalea von Berge.”

After the Verdun family arrived, the atmosphere in the palace changed. It became thick with anticipation and the scent of expensive perfumes that Ingrid had brought back from the Empire.

Gerhard, who used to spend hours in the library or drag Azalea out to the training grounds to show her a new lunge, was now increasingly found in the gardens or the small reception rooms. Where Ingrid was.

Azalea caught glimpses of them. Ingrid was flawless. She knew the etiquette of the neighboring empire, spoke multiple languages, and possessed that very soft magical glow that indicated the purity of her blood. She was a treasure the Verdun family had guarded for ten years to present to the crown at the most opportune moment. And Gerhard seemed to be enchanted. Not only by her beauty, but also by how easily she fit into the royal family. The queen noticed this as well.

For Azalea, however, the palace walls had turned to glass. She could see the life inside, but could no longer touch it.

Time began to pass differently. Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months of preparation for the main event of the year—the crown prince’s coming of age.

On that day, Azalea allowed herself to wear her finest dress for the last time, the one the queen had ordered to be made for her. Azalea pretended that the needles, left there on purpose, did not hurt her. It was a common prank played by the servants who were helping her get ready.

The hall was aglow. Gerhard, in his ceremonial uniform, looked grown-up, like a stranger. When he swore his oath of allegiance to the crown and the people, Azalea stood in the third row of guests. No longer beside him, but among the junior nobility.

He caught her gaze only once. A brief nod, a polite smile, the same one he’d given to dozens of other ladies. That night, Azalea lay awake for a long time, gazing out the window at the festive lights. She understood perfectly well. He hadn’t betrayed their friendship. He’d simply outgrown it. And for her… there was nowhere to grow.