The day after the Festival of Lights was always quieter.
The palace halls still smelled faintly of lantern smoke and cinnamon wine. Most of the nobles had returned to their estates, and those who stayed lounged in the gardens, nursing the comfortable laziness that followed celebration.
For Elara, it was a day of cleaning. Tables were stripped of their silks, cushions shaken free of confetti. In the main hall, she bent to sweep a scattering of flower petals from the marble floor.
At the far end of the room, Serina stood with Lady Miren and the steward, speaking in low tones. From her posture—graceful but assured—it was clear she was already consolidating whatever subtle victories she'd gained at the festival.
Elara kept her eyes on her work. Background characters didn't draw attention.
But when she rose with her dustpan, Serina's gaze flicked toward her—just for a second.
It wasn't suspicion. Not even curiosity.
It was the way one looks at a face they've seen before but can't quite place.
The glance slid away as quickly as it came, and Serina returned to her conversation.
Still, it left a strange feeling in Elara's chest.
Not because Serina had noticed her—people looked at servants all the time without seeing them. But because, for the first time, Elara felt as though the glance might be stored somewhere in Serina's mind, waiting to be recalled later.
As she carried the petals away, she couldn't shake the sensation that the script was turning its head, like an audience member who'd spotted movement at the corner of the stage.
The world wasn't pushing her forward yet.
But it had stopped letting her fade.