The shimmer snapped shut with a soundless pull.
Elara's hand dropped to her side, the skin pale and trembling. Blood still ran freely from her nose, but the weight of the space lifted. The silence afterward felt immense, as though the entire ruined palace was holding its breath.
For a moment, she leaned against the cracked wall, hair spreading weakly around her like a great shroud.
Then she lifted her chin, steadied herself, and called out.
"Guards. Lysandra."
The doors creaked. Heavy boots entered the chamber, followed by the measured step of Lysandra herself. Her black cloak swirled softly, her eyes narrowing as they landed on the sight before her.
The beds.
Clean, polished, sturdy — unlike anything in this starving kingdom. Their smooth wood gleamed faintly, the linens white as untouched snow. They looked like treasures, artifacts not of wealth, but of a different world entirely.
The guards stopped short. None spoke. Their eyes flicked from the beds to Elara, then to Lysandra, then back again.
Lysandra, however, did not falter. She strode forward, her voice calm. "You called."
Elara pressed napkins against her nose, her free hand trembling faintly as she gestured toward the beds.
"Carry them," she ordered. Her voice was hoarse, but steady. "Every chamber needs one. You will not sleep on broken frames and straw while I lead you."
The guards exchanged glances. They were not fools. These beds had not been dragged from storage. No one in this kingdom possessed such finery.
But none dared to question her.
"As you command," one said quietly, bowing his head.
They stepped forward, hands gripping the polished frames with careful reverence, as though afraid they might shatter. Together they bore the first bed out into the ruined corridor, boots thudding on uneven stone.
Lysandra stayed behind.
Her gaze lingered on the closed shimmer in the air, the faint trace of distortion that only her sharp eyes could still catch. Then she turned her full attention to Elara.
"You are bleeding too much," she said softly, kneeling beside her.
Elara attempted a laugh, though it was little more than a rasp. "It is… nothing."
But Lysandra's hand pressed firmly against hers, helping tilt her head back, guiding the napkins more firmly to stem the blood. Her other hand settled against Elara's shoulder, steady and warm.
"Do not pretend with me," Lysandra murmured. "Your strength is not infinite."
Elara's eyes closed briefly. Her hair twitched against the floor, curling faintly toward Lysandra's boots, as though seeking the comfort she would not voice aloud.
Brenna, Liora, and Aveline moved quickly, each slipping past Lysandra to gather linens, fold blankets, and wipe away dust from corners where the new beds would be placed.
They worked with hushed voices, their faces tight with both fear and wonder.
"It is as though she… pulled them from the air," Liora whispered, brushing dust from the floor.
"Not the air," Aveline said quietly, laying out a clean blanket. "From something deeper."
Brenna shot them both a sharp look. "Do not speak of it. Not here."
Yet even she could not hide the flicker in her eyes, the awe she felt as she helped smooth the linens.
Elara's secret was heavy, but it was also salvation.
One by one, the guards returned, bearing the rest of the beds. Each chamber echoed with the sound of wood against stone, the shuffle of boots, the sharp inhale of men unused to such softness.
The ruined palace, with its cracked walls and peeling paint, began to shift. Slowly, faintly, it became livable.
In the halls, common guards touched the smooth wood in disbelief. Some whispered prayers under their breath, as though the furniture itself were a blessing from the gods.
By the time the last bed was placed, the corridors smelled faintly of linen and wood polish — scents so alien to this place of mould and dust that they felt like miracles.
At last, all was set. The guards withdrew to their own chambers, whispering still, though none dared to speak openly of what they had seen. The maids lingered only long enough to press clean napkins against Elara's nose once more, wiping away the last streaks of blood.
When they were dismissed, the chamber fell silent again.
Only Lysandra remained.
She moved quietly, arranging pillows, smoothing blankets, preparing the bed with the same precision she had once given to matters of state.
When it was ready, she turned back to Elara.
"Come."
Her voice was not commanding. It was gentle, almost coaxing.
Elara let herself be helped. Her legs trembled, her face pale from blood loss, but she did not resist when Lysandra guided her onto the clean bed.
The linen was cool against her skin, the mattress soft in a way that almost startled her after so many nights on straw. She sank into it with a small sigh, though her pride made her keep her eyes half-open.
Lysandra sat beside her, brushing a damp strand of white hair from her cheek.
"You must rest," she murmured. "The kingdom will not be won in a night."
Elara's lips curved faintly, though exhaustion blurred the edges of her smile.
"You always sound so certain," she whispered.
Lysandra leaned closer, her eyes dark and steady. "Because I am."
The chamber dimmed as night pressed in through the cracked windows. Outside, the city was silent — the kind of silence that comes not from peace, but from exhaustion.
Inside, two women lay side by side.
Elara, her nose finally cleaned, her breathing slow, her pale hand resting loosely atop the blanket.
Lysandra, sitting upright for a long time, watching over her with a gaze sharp as a blade.
Only when she was certain that Elara's breaths had steadied did she finally lie down beside her, one arm brushing lightly against Elara's shoulder.
The ruined palace had not yet become a home. The kingdom was still starving, still broken.
But for the first time in many nights, there was a place to rest.
And as Elara drifted into sleep, her hair curled faintly around her — not in hunger this time, but in quiet, restless dreams.