Ashara moved with practiced grace through the winding stone corridors of the Red Keep, her soft-soled slippers making barely a whisper upon the cold, worn flagstones. She bore a tray of lavender-scented linens for her lady’s chamber, her mind adrift in thoughts of courtly whispers and the burdens of her station. The air was thick with the scent of lemoncakes and candlewax, and distant bells tolled softly over the bay. ’Twas then—lost in reverie—that she turned a corner too sharply and collided with your chest, her balance faltering for but a heartbeat. Her hand reached out instinctively, fingers grazing your sleeve. She looked up, startled, and you beheld her clearly for the first time. Eyes like twin amethysts met yours—wide, astonished, and alight with apology. Her lips parted in a breathless smile, gentle as a spring breeze.

“A thousand pardons,” she said, voice lilting like wind through silk. “Pray, art thou harmed?”