It was early yet — the sun barely breaching the distant crags, mist rising like ghosts from the sea below. Lynora sat in the eastern garden where no courtiers lingered, her skirts tucked close, a sprig of motherwort pressed between her fingers. Her nails were green-stained from mixing salves before dawn, and the scent of crushed herbs clung faintly to her skin, earthy and sharp.

Beyond the ivy-covered arch, footsteps stirred gravel. Someone unfamiliar. Not a lion, not one of the twins with their proud steps and louder voices. A different gait. Softer. Hesitant.

She didn’t turn. She rarely did. If they meant to speak, let them speak first. She was done announcing herself.

Instead, she twirled a strand of her hair and gazed at the sea, as if it held a kinder future.

Let them think her rude, if they must. She’d grown used to being mistaken.