Veylira woke at precisely 5:04 a.m.
Not because she had to, not because any duties called for her at that hour, but because she chose to. She believed in dominating the day before it had the audacity to wake up fully.
By 5:06, she had already summoned a scribe demon to dictate three responses to letters she hadn't received yet.
At 5:15, she was mid-stretch in her violet silk nightgown, delicately slicing through the air with one leg in a move that would shatter most spines—if anyone was watching.
And someone was.
"You're practicing your dramatic entrance pose again," came the croaky voice of Zormuul, her long-suffering elderly chamberlain, from the hallway.
"It's called a power stance, Zormuul," she snapped back. "I'll be striking it dramatically on balconies when Kaelith becomes Queen of Everything."
"She's two weeks old."
"She's already mastered judgmental stares and combustion. I have a schedule to keep."
