The garden was quiet in the late afternoon, the winter light pale and thin on the bare branches of the fig tree. Lysander had come here without meaning to, his feet carrying him through the palace corridors while his mind was still in the settlement, still counting the dead, still measuring the cost of the choices he had made. He had not slept. He had not eaten. He had been running on nothing but will for so long that he had forgotten what it felt like to stop.
She was sitting on the stone bench beneath the fig tree, her embroidery in her lap, her hands still. She was not working on it. She was looking at the harbour, where the fishing boats were coming in with the evening catch, their sails golden in the dying light.
