Dowager Queen Aelira sat beside the tall windows of the north wing, where the light was always thinner and colder than in the rest of the palace.
Morning had come pale and restrained, the sky washed in muted silver. It flattened the world beyond the glass and laid a stark sheen over her hair, turning it almost white.
A cup of tea rested on the small table at her elbow. Steam rose in gentle spirals, then faded. She had not touched it.
The northern wing had always been her refuge — austere, orderly, dignified. The dowager queen's chambers. It was a place where emotions did not rule. Where decisions were made with clarity, not sentiment.
Today, clarity felt harder to grasp.
The knock came softly.
"Enter."
The doors opened, and Aurelia stepped inside.
She did not hesitate. She did not falter. Her gown fell in simple elegance, her posture straight, her chin lifted just enough to suggest dignity without defiance.
She bowed.
"Your Majesty."
