The doors of Ailla's private chambers flew inward as Malachi burst through the threshold.
His shoulder-length, wavy dark hair was loosely secured in a half-up, half-down style, several wild strands whipping across his face .
As he walked, his dark, ornate royal robes swayed like a gathering storm behind his back.
Shakdam, standing like an immovable sentinel by the wall, instantly sprang into action. She pulled out a carved chair for Malachi, bowing so low her forehead nearly aligned with the table.
A silent procession of servants glided into the room, their hands bearing fine silver trays to serve steaming dark tea to both Malachi and Ailla.
Ailla sat with effortless grace, draped in a gown of striking crimson silk. Her long, brown curls was held high in a ponytail, adorned with nothing but a meticulously carved ivory hairpin-a rare token Malachi had gifted her during their youth.
