Roses Grow Best in Ash

Seraphina Snow learned early that cruelty did not need to be loud.

Loud cruelty was inelegant-emotional, sloppy, easily punished. The kind of cruelty that drew attention. The kind her grandfather despised.

Real power smiled while it bled you.

She stood before the mirror as attendants fastened her Academy uniform-ivory silk, silver threading, the Snow crest resting lightly at her throat. Her reflection stared back composed, flawless, unbothered. The kind of girl people trusted instinctively and feared too late.

"The Quarter Quell will test loyalties," her mother said from the doorway.

Seraphina adjusted her gloves. "Loyalty isn't tested," she replied calmly. "It's exposed."

A pause. Then a nod.

The Snow estate was silent in the mornings, the kind of silence that demanded obedience. White roses lined the halls, fragrant and overwatered, their thorns trimmed just enough to be decorative.

Seraphina passed them without looking.

She had been raised among warnings.
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