Dawn broke over the palace like a promise.
The sky was clear and cold, the last stars fading as the sun rose behind the eastern mountains. Frost glittered on the garden grass like scattered diamonds. The fountain sparkled in the pale light. The palace stones, worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, seemed to hold their breath. Even the wind had stopped, as if the world itself was waiting.
Seren stood before the mirror in her chambers.
Lysa stood behind her, with a brush in her hand, her pregnant belly round beneath her simple dress. Her daughter played on the floor with a wooden spoon, banging it against the leg of a chair. The sound was cheerful, mundane, grounding.
"You're crying," Seren said, watching Lysa's reflection.
"I'm not crying. I'm leaking." Lysa sniffled.
