Morning had arrived.
The sun began to illuminate the spires of the Castle of Iron Hearth. The sounds of busy servants drifted from a distance—hurried footsteps in the corridors, small commands echoing back and forth, and the occasional burst of laughter from the kitchen as it hummed to life.
Inside the room, the atmosphere was different.
Quiet.
But it wasn't a cold silence. It was a warm, expectant quiet, for behind that door, the world was bustling to prepare something for her. For the first time in her life, the commotion wasn't for someone else. It was for her.
A white gown hung on the wooden rack beside the bed. The fabric was soft, adorned with Snow Chrysanthemum embroidery at the cuffs and bodice—a single row, just as she had chosen. A sheer veil was draped neatly beside it.
Elara sat in her wheelchair, facing the window.
