Morena slept hard for the first time in weeks. No slipping in and out of shallow dreams, no letters pressed against the inside of her skull—just dark, quiet rest until the gray edge of dawn pulled her up.
When she opened her eyes, the room felt softer, lighter. Her shoulder tugged when she stretched, but the pain was duller; the wound pain lessened over the night.
Heat, bath, clean linen—she took her time with all of it, re-wrapping the wounds so they lay flat under a practical black dress. She didn't wear her armor, not today.
She wouldn't be training today, at least not yet, for instead she had plans to settle estate matters.
Adolf was already at his desk, of course. The steward looked like someone had scraped the night off him and set him upright anyway: shirt neat, hair not quite, quill still wet with ink.
"You're earlier than the sun."
Morena said.
"I've been racing it for forty years."
A dry twitch of a smile.
