It was the day before Althea's coronation ceremony.
The scent of lavender and sandalwood lingered in the air as wisps of steam curled along the marbled floor of the dressing chamber. Vyan stood still, fresh out of a hot bath, his bare skin still flushed from the recent soak and the strain of sword training earlier that morning.
He rolled his shoulders slightly, the dull ache of muscle and steel still thrumming under his skin.
His sparring partner today had been Iyana. Naturally. It was the weekend, and that meant she was home—albeit reluctantly letting herself rest in a place that had quietly become her haven. Their swords had clashed under the morning sun, her strikes swift and brutal, his counters laced with fire and laughter. Yes, she allowed him to use magic. It had been a good morning.
Now, the hush of routine filled the room.
