Maisie’s POV
The double doors to the grand hall swung open just as the first low note of the ceremonial horn sounded. A senior Omega—Greta, the one with the permanent scowl—grabbed my elbow without warning and yanked me backward.
“Kitchen. Now.”
I stumbled after her, bare feet slapping against the cold marble. The horn’s echo chased us down the corridor like an accusation. I didn’t resist. What would be the point? The coronation was starting, and I wasn’t meant to see it. I wasn’t meant to see anything beautiful or important anymore.
Greta shoved me through the swinging doors into the kitchen. Heat hit me like a wall—ovens roaring, pots clanging, steam curling thick in the air. The scent of roasted venison, garlic, rosemary, and caramelized onions drowned out everything else. My stomac
