Elara inhaled sharply.
Her hand lingered at her temple, the throbbing pain subsiding just enough for her to catch her breath. The dining hall swam back into focus—silverware clinking, conversations rolling, the scent of warm bread and spiced wine clouding the air. Laughter rose from the far end of the table. Marian's voice slipped in beside her, soft and concerned, but Elara didn't truly hear it.
She wiped at her mouth with a napkin. Smoothed her hands against her lap. Straightened her spine.
A practiced calm returned to her like armor being refastened, piece by piece.
'That's right. It's just stress,' she told herself. Her thoughts sounded too even, too automatic. 'A strain on the nerves. Magic burn, maybe. The headache. That's all it is.'
It had to be.
