The morning light filtered through the high windows, pale gold streaks slipping past the curtains and painting long shapes across the floor. Elyra stirred beneath the covers, blinking once before sitting up. For a moment, everything seemed normal—the faint scent of polished wood, the soft rustle of servants already moving through the halls.
But the feeling in her chest wasn't normal. A tightness sat there, an itch she couldn't shake.
She pushed back the sheets and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, staring at the floorboards as if they could give her answers. That sense again—sharp, gnawing. The one she had learned never to ignore.
Her fingers brushed over the braid resting against her shoulder. "...It's Noel," she muttered under her breath, the words meant for no one but herself. "I know it. Something's off."
