When the morning comes, the first thing Ilaria noticed was the blanket which is warm and heavy in a way that made her sigh even before her eyes fully opened. The dim light of the morning crept through the edges of the tent, painting everything in soft gold, and for a heartbeat, she let herself linger in the comfort and warmth of sleep.
Her fingers traced the folds of the wool over her shoulders, and a faint, puzzled frown touched her brow. She was… already wearing her gown? Somehow, in the quiet of the night, she must have pulled it back on… Or did someone put it on for her?
She blinked, tugging at the fabric, half embarrassed and half grateful for the modesty it gave her. Her mind wandered, and she felt the flush creep up her neck and onto her cheeks. Last night… The memory was soft, a gentle pulse of warmth, like the faint echo of a dream she did not want to end.
