As the sun crested the horizon over Ilis, painting the marble spires of the palace gold, Serah had already risen, bathed, dressed, and armed herself with purpose. Sleep had barely graced her, yet she moved with determination, her boots clicking softly against polished stone floors as she made her way deeper into the palace. Not to the throne hall, not to the training grounds—but to a tucked-away corner that smelled faintly of smoke, old parchment, and spilt liquor.
The royal family's personal comm-rune craftswoman lived and worked there. A woman less refined than most of the palace's staff, but indispensable.
Her name was Brenna Valeheart.
