The palace of Nacrifa slept under a velvet sky, the moon spilling pale silver across the stone terraces and towering columns. Torches burned lazily along the corridors, their flames flickering softly in the night breeze that wandered through the open balconies. Most of the palace had fallen silent hours ago—servants dismissed, nobles retired to their chambers, guards stationed like unmoving statues at their posts.
But not everyone slept.
In a quiet wing of the palace, far from the lively chambers where laughter and music once echoed, a single figure stood beside a tall window.
Hermia.
The moonlight painted her face in sharp contrasts—half light, half shadow. It suited her in a way she would never admit.
She had always been good at standing in shadows.
For years she had lived there.
