Veylira stood in front of the large oval mirror in her chamber, feeling oddly uncertain. The evening sunlight spilled softly through the tall stained-glass window, bathing the room in hues of gentle amber and soft rose.
Her usually calm, composed face reflected a rare nervousness, a hesitant uncertainty that she hadn't felt in decades.
In front of her, the lavish dressing table was an elegant mess—jewelry boxes opened like scattered treasure chests, velvet ribbons unraveled and tossed aside, hairpins glittering like fallen stars across polished wood.
She picked up a delicate silver earring studded with amethysts, holding it thoughtfully against her ear before sighing and placing it down again.
On the bed behind her, Malvoria lounged with graceful, predatory ease, propped on one elbow, eyes narrowed in contemplation.
Beside her, Lara sat cross-legged, her fingers tangled with nervous excitement, watching their mother with keen, playful attention.
