The corridor was already alive with movement when Metheea stepped into it, sunlight filtering through the tall windows in pale bands that cut across the stone floor as servants passed quietly, heads bowed, schedules in hand.
Resme walked at her side, ledger tucked beneath her arm, her voice measured and precise as she spoke.
"Your schedule has been adjusted, Your Highness," she said, eyes on the page. "The morning audiences have been condensed. Two petitions postponed. Riding training remains unchanged."
Metheea nodded, her pace steady as they moved deeper into the hall. "It has to," she replied. "The final day procession is days ahead."
Resme inclined her head. "Understood."
They turned a corner, their steps echoing softly as they approached the doors leading toward the stable wing, the air shifting subtly with the familiar scent of leather and hay that always lingered on that side of the palace.
