Dylan followed the young woman down the stairs, his body still numb.
He yawned loudly, hand over his mouth, as if apologizing for the fatigue clinging to his skin.
The steps creaked beneath his bare feet. His sleep-damp eyes lingered on the slender figure walking ahead. She moved with a calm gait, still wearing that same detached air — as if nothing in the world was worth paying attention to, not even the morning.
But today, her uniform was clean. The dust was gone, the folds somewhat ironed out. Even her bun seemed better pinned, as if the night had returned her a sliver of dignity.
"She's beautiful," he thought, the idea appearing suddenly, with no warning or analysis.
Not a striking beauty, the kind that announces itself and screams for attention — nothing that could rival the court's noblewomen or the overly painted tavern girls.
No.
It was a kind of weary elegance. A quiet beauty, worn by labor, but undeniable.
