The first bell of dawn had barely rung when pale sunlight began to creep through the silken curtains.
A faint chill lingered in the air, carrying the scent of dew and sandalwood from the garden outside.
Ananya sat by the mirror, dressed in a plain robe of dull brown — the kind a servant might wear. Her long hair was braided simply, tucked beneath a faded scarf. Her reflection hardly looked royal; it looked… invisible.
Behind her stood Meilin, the young servant who had followed her since childhood, now clutching one of Ananya's embroidered gowns with trembling fingers.
"My lady," Meilin whispered, her voice shaking, "if they find out—"
"They won't," Ananya said firmly. "You'll wear my robe, lie in my bed, and tell anyone who enters that I've taken a fever from last night's chill."
Meilin's eyes widened. "A fever?"
"Make it convincing," Ananya said, handing her a damp towel. "Sweat a little if you must."
