By morning, the palace had remembered her name.
She noticed it in the way courtiers stepped aside in the corridor, just a hair too late. In the glances traded between aides as she passed, in the small lull that followed her footsteps when she entered a room.
They didn't bow. They didn't fawn. But they were watching now.
Word had traveled fast, as it always did in places like this. No one said it aloud, but she could feel the shift in the air. She was no longer just a Da Ville daughter with a temper and a bloodline.
She was the girl who had spoken in the war room and hadn't embarrassed herself.
Worse, she had said something worth remembering.
Beatrice moved through the corridors with quiet grace, her head high. If it unsettled her, she didn't show it. She wore deep blue today, embroidered at the sleeves, a silver clasp at her throat. Understated power.
She didn't stop to greet anyone. She rarely did.
