Shellia stood frozen by the window, her pale fingers brushing against the soft fabric of the curtains. The moonlight fell through the glass, bathing her in silver hues that matched the quiet confusion in her eyes. Two beloved spirits from her bloodline had once stood where she stood now—Empresses of Aurora, bearers of divine power and light. Their names were etched in history, their deeds immortalized. But tonight, those stories felt too close, too real.
Her gaze shifted toward Allen, who stood near the doorway. His presence filled the chamber with calm authority, yet something about the moment felt fragile—like the thin thread of a dream about to unravel.
Allen's eyes, green like twilight forests, softened as he looked at her. "You should rest, Shellia," he said quietly, his tone carrying that same mix of gentleness and command she had come to know too well.
