冷月歌眯了眯眼， thumbing through the unfamiliar ceiling. This definitely wasn't her tiny, musty hovel. She smelled like expensive sandalwood, unlike the cheap lavender her stepmother always used. The bed was massive, the sheets fine silk... and there was a faint, almost imperceptible scent of... musk?

Musk that felt dangerously close to familiarity.

She pushed herself up, ignoring the splitting headache that throbbed at her temples like a trapped drum. The room was huge, decorated in intricate, gold-trimmed blue patterns. A massive wardrobe, a vanity table laden with creams and combs, a four-poster bed... This wasn't just rich, this was damn luxurious.

"Where... where am I?" she slurred, her voice hoarse from dehydration and the lingering shock.

A soft, cold voice broke the silence. "You're in the Eastern Wing, Room 405. You've been unconscious for three days."

Cold. Like ice water. She froze, her blood running cold despite the warmth of the room.