Night Came
Yeara sat in front of the fancy mirror, clad in a long night gown—the one she loved to wear. A maid stood behind her, gently brushing her glossy white hair backwards.
The soft sound of the brush running slowly through her hair surrounded the room in the most therapeutic way. If not for the slight worry within Yeara, she was sure she would have fallen asleep.
Why was she even worried about him?
Zalthor had left during their meal as he had something important to do, and ever since then she had not seen him, nor had he returned.
Yeara's hands moved together, her fingers playing with each other almost nervously. She did not understand why, despite how she had forced herself not to care, it felt futile.
'But does he not rest… even kings deserve rest,' she said to herself, her eyes staring into her own reflection in the mirror, yet she was not even there—her mind had flown elsewhere.
She sighed.
