The faint fragrance of moon lilies drifted through the room when Shellia finally stirred. A cool breeze slipped in through the tall balcony doors, carrying the sound of distant bells from the palace courtyard. The canopy above her shimmered faintly with threads of starlight—woven with the faintest traces of her own purification earlier that day.
Her eyelashes fluttered. The weight of sleep still lingered on her body, soft but heavy, as if the gods themselves were urging her to rest longer. Yet something in the air had shifted. The oppressive pressure she had once sensed—the subtle remnants of demonic taint—was gone.
When she sat up, the silken sheets slipped down her shoulders, revealing the pale light of the moon cascading through the tall glass window. The chamber itself was immaculate, almost divine in its serenity. No corruption, no stain, no shadow. Just peace.
