The dawn light fell across the painted vaulted stone of the imperial bedchamber, filtering through the heavy drapes.
Eris kept her eyes fixed on the ceiling, tracing the familiar lines of carved granite and faded fresco work.
It was her ceiling, the same high stone arch she had stared at during a hundred ordinary mornings.
Yet her body felt heavy, drained, like a vessel scraped completely hollow and left out in the cold.
Every muscle throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, the lingering echo of a storm that had passed through her veins and left her standing in the quiet aftermath.
She lay motionless for a moment, letting her consciousness drift inward. Gently, she reached for the warm, familiar presence beneath her ribs.
The three tiny sparks of life were there, quieter and more subdued than usual, but steady and unmistakable. A long breath escaped her lips. They were safe.
Then her mind searched deeper, into the darker places where the old shadow dwelt.
