The palace still smelled faintly of roasted chicken and warm bread when Elara returned inside with Lysandra at her side. The courtyard had emptied, leaving behind only guttering torches and scattered crumbs.
"Clear the meeting hall," Lysandra ordered the guards who followed her. "Tables. Chairs. Candles. Do not dawdle."
The soldiers saluted briskly, though their armour creaked with rust, and hurried into the shadows of the ruined corridors. Soon, the sound of scraping wood and thudding boots echoed through the palace.
Elara's three maids arrived next, still flushed from the evening's labours. Brenna clutched a bundle of papers she had salvaged from a half-collapsed library earlier that day. "We found parchment, my lady. Some is stained, but it will serve for lists."
"Good," Elara said, lowering herself carefully into one of the tall chairs as it was dragged into place. She pressed her fingers against the table's cracked surface. "Bring ink. We will begin tonight."
Within the hour, the ruined chamber had transformed into something resembling a council room. A long wooden table stood at its centre, candles flickering in mismatched holders. Around it, chairs had been scavenged — some whole, some crooked, a few missing one armrest.
Dust motes drifted in the candlelight, yet for the first time since Elara had entered this city, the space felt alive.
Elara sat at the head of the table, her long hair falling like pale silk over the back of her chair. Lysandra claimed the seat at her right, her presence sharp as a drawn blade. Across from them, the three maids took their places, parchment spread before them, ink pots at the ready.
Lysandra's guards stood along the walls, silent but attentive. Their armour was scarred, but their eyes tracked every movement.
Elara let the silence linger a moment before she spoke. "We will list what must be done. Tonight. No waiting. If we do not shape this place, it will collapse beneath us."
Her maids bent over their parchment, quills poised.
The meeting began slowly.
"First, the palace itself," Brenna said, her voice brisk. "The roofs leak. The windows are shattered. Half the kitchens are unusable."
"Write it," Elara said.
"Second," Liora added softly, "bedding. We cannot have guests — or even ourselves — sleeping on broken frames. The maids' quarters are worse than stalls for horses."
Elara's nose prickled faintly at the mention of bedding. She remembered the weight of the beds she had dragged from her space, the blood that had poured from her nose as she held the portal open. Still, she nodded. "Write it."
Aveline glanced at the guards. "And clothing. Uniforms for them, at least. They cannot protect you looking like beggars."
"Write it." The list grew longer with every voice:
Clean water channels for the city, a new granary, Proper walls around the palace grounds, torches, lanterns, oil, medicines and healers, livestock pens, and Stables. Ink stained their fingers as parchment after parchment filled with words.
After the first dozen items, Elara rose from her seat. The room quieted instantly as she lifted her hand, palm trembling.
She pressed her fingers to the air — and the shimmer appeared. Her maids gasped, though they had seen it before. The guards stiffened, their hands half-raising to their swords, but Lysandra's sharp gaze froze them in place.
The air split open.
The smell of roasted chicken spilt into the room. Elara's arms trembled as she pulled out platters, each steaming with golden meat, the skin crisp, the juices glistening in the candlelight. She set them on the table, one by one, her breath growing harsher.