It was sunrise now.
The rain had stopped falling, leaving the palace washed in silver light. The stone walls were still wet, the gardens dripping. The air carried the smell of damp earth and fresh leaves. Somewhere in the distance, a bird gave a lonely call.
Inside, the halls were quiet except for the soft clinking and shuffling of servants cleaning after the ball from the night before. Chairs were being moved, candle stubs scraped from tables, broken glass swept into small piles. The echo of laughter and music was gone, leaving only silence.
In her chambers, Lydia was already awake.
She sat by the tall window, her nightgown flowing loosely over her frame, her hair falling over one shoulder. Her hands rested in her lap, still as stone. Her eyes were on the horizon where the pale morning light brushed against the edge of the sky.
Her gaze was empty.
She didn't blink often, as if her mind was somewhere far away from the room, from the palace, from the morning itself.
