After a short while, Rosalind returned to the sparring yard in an outfit far simpler than her usual attire. She wore a white poet shirt, its soft fabric fitting neatly over her slender frame. The hair that normally cascaded down her back was now tied up, revealing the elegant line of her nape and eyes that gleamed under the sunlight.
She looked entirely different from the figure she usually presented. No longer the noble lady hidden behind layers of embroidered silk and velvet drapes, she now resembled a woman full of strength and vitality.
From a quiet corner of the yard, Lyra stood observing, saying nothing. Her gaze followed each movement between them, as though she were silently memorizing every beat that passed between these two.
Dorian watched Rosalind in silence, a brief flicker of emotion stirring in his eyes. In the simplicity of the training ground, she radiated a kind of light that drew the eye, vibrant and alive.
