In a grand bedchamber adorned with tall windows and heavy burgundy drapes, a gray-haired woman sat quietly before a polished silver mirror.
The soft glow of midday filtered through the silk curtains, casting faint patterns on the stone floor. A carved wooden brush lay forgotten on the table before her, its bristles stained with strands of gray hair. In her hands, she held a parchment letter, its seal broken, its words still burning in her mind.
In the corner of the room, a falcon perched inside a wrought-iron cage mounted atop a five-foot-tall wooden pole. Its feathers shimmered faintly in the light as it pecked and preened itself, occasionally tilting its head toward her, as if sensing the storm of emotion within.
Mary's expression darkened the longer she stared at the letter. Her brows drew close, lips tight, and eyes glassy with restrained fury. Every line of ink seemed to pull her deeper into a silence that had weight.
