Lenora sat beneath the pale wash of dawnlight in the palace's private solarium, a book open on her lap and an untouched cup of jasmine tea cooling beside her. She wore a robe the colour of cream and danger, one leg draped elegantly over the other. To an outsider, it was a portrait of leisure.
But anyone who'd seen the blood under her nails a few hours ago would know better.
Birdsong. Faint harp music from the hall. And the slow inhale-exhale of someone who had almost been murdered in their sleep and chose to read poetry after.
The illusion broke with the low scuff of boots against marble.
A guard appeared at the archway, helmet tucked under one arm, expression taut with importance.
"My lady," he began, bowing deeply, "news from the front. A courier came at first light. There's movement near the Black Ridge—"
"Is it movement or retreat?" she asked, not looking up from her page.
"Scouts say it's a feint, but—"
