The afternoon light leaned against the frost-laced windows of the outer chamber, pale and noncommittal.
It was the kind of light that illuminated the dust motes in the air but offered no heat to the stones beneath, a thin wash of winter sun that seemed to be retreating even as it arrived.
Inside, the world was reduced to the rhythmic, tiny sound of a needle piercing fabric.
Eris sat in the high-backed chair by the window, her silhouette framed by the stark white of the landscape outside. She was sewing.
On the table beside her, and spilling into her lap, were the beginnings of three small things.
They were made of the softest linen she could source from the capital, fabrics of winter white and pale, shimmering gold.
She was working on the patterns at the edges, her fingers moving with a slow, deliberate cadence. It was the kind of work that demanded a long time, and today, she did not mind the hours.
