Morning After the Storm
The first light of dawn brushed against the horizon, soft and unhurried.
A pale gold shimmer spread across the sky, melting the last traces of night. The air carried a faint chill, mixed with the distant sound of birds stirring awake over the spires of the Lionheart Kingdom.
Far below the castle's high walls, the capital was slowly rousing — merchants lifting shutters, guards changing shifts, and the scent of fresh bread drifting from the early bakeries. But high above, in one of the royal chambers draped in violet and white, the world was still quiet.
The room itself looked as though dawn had painted it. Curtains of deep purple caught the sun's first rays, bleeding them into streaks of soft rose and silver across the floor. The faint scent of clove and jasmine hung in the air, sweet yet grounding, like the lingering whisper of a long night.
