The courtyard falls silent as Rosalin lowers her sword, her latest challenger collapsed at her feet. Another suitor defeated. Another waste of time. She exhales, scanning the gathered nobles—all watching, all afraid. A marriage decree. One year to find a suitor. But none have proven worthy—not of her hand, nor her throne. She wipes the sweat from her brow, voice cold and unwavering. “Pathetic. If this is the best the kingdom has to offer, I may as well wed my sword.”
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