While the shadows of the drainage tunnel held a cold, silent tragedy, the merchant's estate remained bathed in the soft, warm glow of Eternal Ember lamps.
Inside the children's wing, the mother smoothed the silken sheets over Holly and her brother.
"Did Papa's hand stop hurting?"
Holly asked sleepily, her fingers tightening around the worn plush doll that seemed so out of place in this opulent room. The mother whispered, leaning down to kiss her forehead,
"Yes, darling. Papa was just tired. He's fine now. You just focus on your dreams. Tomorrow, we might even go to the bakery for those honey tarts you like after you sang at the square."
She tucked the blankets in tight, her movements practiced and gentle, the very picture of maternal devotion. She hummed a soft, sweet lullaby as she backed toward the door, lingering just long enough to see their eyes flutter shut. To anyone watching, she was the heart of a perfect home.
