"Bless Mikhailis. Bless those tiny wonders."
Rodion's text flicked a pale heartbeat of acknowledgnt in her lens, then vanished.
Minor reports rolled by—border patrols noting quiet roads since the new fortified waystations (another ant innovation) deterred smugglers; the tax assessor celebrating smoother coin flow now that secret under-streets funneled bulky trade wagons beneath the clogged northern passes; the Guildmaster of Artisans requesting modest funds to repaint the public amphitheater's faded frescos. Compared to treaty wrangling, these issues felt feather-light.
Yet ti flew. Amber shafts creeping across the marble floor lengthened and cooled toward noon. When Aelthrin finally pronounced the agenda concluded, sunlight had shifted high enough that the stained-glass saints above the chamber doors cast halos on the back wall.
Elowen rose in one fluid motion. Royal etiquette manuals demanded she show no fatigue, yet a quiet ache tugged behind her shoulders. Still, she nodded farewell—each minister bowed deeply—and glided from the hall with attendants in tow.
But halfway down the echoing corridor, she lifted one hand. "Remain," she murmured. The pageboys and guards halted, puzzled, as their queen slipped through an ivy-frad archway few courtiers ever noticed.
The powder room was small, dod in pearl plaster, its only decoration a single hydrangea bloom floating in a crystal basin. Witchlight orbs drifted overhead like sleepy fireflies, tinting everything with a candle-soft glow.
Elowen braced her palms on the carved ivory sink, leaning forward until her reflection filled the polished mirror. A half-loose braid spilled russet hair over her shoulder; she coaxed stray strands back under the silken binding. Ink smudged her cuff—probably from passing a policy scroll to Lord Rether—she dabbed it with a damp cloth until the white fabric glead again.
That was when the voice humd at her ear, smooth as ever.
She rolled her eyes to the vaulted ceiling, lips quirking. "Nag, nag, nag. You sound just like Mikhailis now."
Elowen's laugh puffed against the mirror, fogging a circle on the glass. She dabbed it away with the cuff of her sleeve, then teased the tiny fold at her collar until the embroidery lay flat. Small rituals steadied her nerves better than chamomile.
So this is what Mikhailis lives with, she mused, picturing the prince forever flanked by Rodion's dry comntary. Delightful—and mildly exhausting.
The spectacles glimred as new words traced the inner lens.
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