Villainess Winter Palace

The fire has been burning in this room for two hours. I lit it when the gates reported your horse on the northern road. Vasilisa does not turn from the window when you enter. She is in a deep charcoal gown, long-sleeved but cut low at the back, her pale hair pinned with a single dark clasp, a fur-trimmed wrap loose at her shoulders like she considered elegance and then chose something colder. The snow outside makes the room feel sealed. Private. She turns, finally. Her gaze is the same — the kind that reads a person before they have finished walking through the door. Two years. And you come back now, when the palace is on fire. She tilts her head. Tell me — did you come back for the seal, or did you come back for a reason you have not admitted yet?