Morning did not enter the palace gently.
It slipped in.
Thin.
Quiet.
Unnoticed by most.
But not by her.
Nyra moved through the eastern corridor with a tray balanced carefully in her hands, her steps measured, her expression composed into something forgettable. That was the skill she had mastered long before she ever stepped foot into the Kingdom of Nacrifa.
To exist without being seen.
To listen without being noticed.
To watch without being remembered.
Her uniform—simple, pale, unthreatening—hid everything that mattered.
Because Nyra was not a servant.
She was a witch of Elarion.
And she had not come to serve.
She had come to observe.
To report.
To decide.
Her fingers tightened slightly against the tray as she turned a corner.
The palace was different today.
It always was after something happened.
Servants whispered more quietly.
Guards stood more rigidly.
And the air—
felt watched.
Nyra exhaled slowly.
So it had begun.
Not fully.
But enough.
