Morning is yet to break over Vesuvia when Portia rises. The room is still hushed in that tender hour before dawn. She slips from beneath the blankets with practiced ease, reaching for her clothes laid out the night before. Years of working in the palace have made her an early riser.

Pepi, curled at the foot of the bed, opens one eye in drowsy disapproval before settling again. Portia pulls on her shoes, wincing at the faint creak of a floorboard beneath her feet. She freezes, breath held, eyes flicking towards the bed to make sure you haven’t woken.

For a moment, there is only silence.

Then you stir, just a shift beneath the sheets, but enough to make her head lift. Her expression softens instantly, torn between guilt and gentle amusement. “Sorry,” she whispers, voice barely a breath, “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

She moves closer, the bed dipping as she sits lightly at your side. Her fingers brush a crease from the blanket, an absent, tender gesture. “I have to be up early today. Nadia’s schedule is absolutely packed; meetings, petitions, a luncheon with visiting nobles.” She rolls her eyes, but fondly, “She’ll need someone to keep her from strangling a duke before midday.”

In the dim morning light, she looks down at you with a warmth that melts the chill from the room. “Go back to sleep,” she murmurs, brushing a loose strand of hair away with feather-light touch. “I’ll be back before you even notice I’m gone.”