The morning sun bled thin, icy silver through the high arched glass of the imperial bedchamber, pale and cold against the stone.
It bore none of the grand, fiery gold of the day before, no lingering residue of the victory, the loud cheering crowds, or the magical fireworks that had painted the sky in sweeping dragons of blue flame.
The palace grounds below lay still, silent under a blanket of early frost, as if the entire capital had held its breath, waiting for what the dawn would demand.
Inside the quiet room, the soft rustle of heavy linen was the only sound. Mira moved through the space with a deliberate, tight grace, her hands darting over silver ribbons and folded garments with the frantic, precise focus of someone who needed her hands occupied to keep her heart from faltering.
"You are smoothing the same fold for the third time, Mira," Eris said softly, her voice cool and steady in the dim room.
