I sat at the polished mana-wood table in the crown garden's shaded alcove, sunlight dappling through floating vines like liquid gold, the air humming with faint lullabies from unfurling lilies and the chirp-trills of crystal-winged songbirds bathing in levitating dew-fountains.
Fresh clothes clung soft to my battered frame—a loose, emerald tunic of elven silk whispering against my raw nipples with every breath, paired with fitted black pants that chafed my tender thighs, the fabric a cruel reminder of last night's savagery.
My fingers trembled slightly as I gathered my golden hair—tangled, pollen-dusted strands still carrying faint traces of sweat and Elowen's ozone-musk—twisting it into a messy bun secured with a vine-tendril tie, a few rebellious curls escaping to brush my flushed neck.
