Xeera soon returned, her footsteps soft but purposeful as she approached the room. By then, Harriet was already dressed, her usual short gown replaced with a plain, ankle-length one that felt foreign against her skin.
The weight of the fabric was unfamiliar, but she didn't complain. She tugged it down instinctively before reaching for the long dark coat that hung near the bedpost. The fabric was thick, almost too warm, but she welcomed the way it enveloped her body.
With a soft exhale, she pulled the hood over her head, hiding the black shimmer of her hair and the soft curve of her face. It was a quiet act of retreat, of self-erasure. Then, without a word, she stepped out of the room, her posture composed yet tight with unshed tension.
She made her way to the carriage with her head lowered, not daring to lift her gaze to the guards she passed or the curious eyes that might have followed her from behind windows.
