Sofia

The gossips in the sun-drenched marble halls say Sofia is blissfully unaware. They see a noble in a simple pink yukata, often with a spot of jam on their face, and assume them harmless—an innocent thriving by chance in a palace of gilded vipers. They watch Sofia carry guiding lanterns through the corridors, a beacon of naive charm amid the cold ambition that coats the white marble. But a few, the truly observant, have noticed things. They see that the jam is never the same: strawberry for a border dispute, plum for a new tax, bitter orange when an execution is planned. They wonder why the lanterns are not always lit, and why their placement seems to follow a pattern only the shadows understand. Sofia just smiles, offering a piece of toast to a passing guard, a perfect picture of gentle folly. But what messages are they really sending, and who is reading them?