The training grounds were quiet this early in the morning, save for the soft thud of boots against packed dirt. Zayan had just finished a short sparring session with two of his guards, his shirt damp with sweat and his arms glistening in the golden morning light. He rolled his shoulders, savoring the ache of exertion, and grabbed a towel from a nearby post.
"You're up early," came a familiar voice behind him, lilting with mischief.
Zayan turned to see Isolde striding toward him, her dark braid swaying behind her and a grin already tugging at the corner of her mouth. She carried a leather-bound ledger under one arm, her sleeves rolled up and a smudge of ink streaked across one cheek.
"You're one to talk," he said, tossing the towel over his shoulder. "What are you doing outside the infirmary at this hour?"
