The skies of that world had finally cleared.
After weeks of being veiled in gray clouds and the lingering mist of war, the sun appeared, hesitant at first, peeking between soft white clouds. Its light was gentle, as if it understood that in this world, darkness was not meant to be erased but balanced.
From a black stone balcony carved with intricate patterns, Sylvia sat quietly, her back resting against a chair lined with deep violet fabric. Before her, a cup of warm tea released a thin wisp of steam, carrying the delicate scent of mirtha leaves and luneveil blossoms, her favorite morning blend.
The steam drifted lazily into the tender spring breeze that had only just returned.
She lifted the cup slowly.
From the silver-rimmed black porcelain, the tea's warmth touched her tongue, a little bitter, but soothing. Her gaze fell to the courtyard below, where her soldiers were training. The sight lightened her chest in a way she could not quite explain.
