Malvoria stormed through the corridor like a woman on a mission—except she had no mission, no blade in hand, no battle plan to draft.
She was simply walking fast because she had too many feelings and nowhere to put them.
Her boots echoed sharply against the stone floor, and the palace staff she passed wisely flattened themselves against the walls.
They knew that look. The tight jaw. The furrowed brow. The way her cloak flared behind her like wings made of rage and barely-contained anxiety.
She opened the door to her chambers without knocking, not out of rudeness but because knocking on her own door felt absurd.
Inside, the world shifted.
The air was warmer, scented with roses and faint traces of honeyed milk. The massive bed was unmade, its soft cream-colored sheets tangled, a cradle sat nearby, glowing faintly with protective wards, and on the chaise near the hearth.
Elysia sat like some serene goddess of motherhood—barefoot, glowing, utterly composed.
