Morning crept into the palace like a thief — soft and golden, too beautiful for a place that had stolen her freedom. The light slipped through the tall windows of Aurelia's chamber, pooling on the marble floor like melted honey.
Aurelia lay still, watching the slow dance of dust motes drifting through the sunbeam. She had barely slept. Every sound — the faint click of armored boots outside, the whisper of curtains in the draft — kept her half-awake. It was impossible to rest in a place that didn't breathe the same air as her dreams.
The door opened quietly. Lyra stepped in with her usual calm grace, carrying a tray of breakfast — fruit, bread still warm from the oven, and a pot of tea fragrant with jasmine.
"Good morning, my lady," she greeted, setting the tray on the table near the window. "Did you rest well?"
Aurelia almost smiled at the politeness. "About as well as one does in a gilded cage."
