The first rays of dawn, cold and merciless, sliced through the window. They painted the room in hues of stark gray and faint, bruised purple. Arin stood before the chipped mirror, her hands moving with a practiced, almost ritualistic precision. No more lingering. No more internal battles. The time for hesitation was over.
She had bathed in the lukewarm water left in the basin, washing away the scent of Caldan's chamber, the lingering tension. Now, she dressed. Not in her usual commoner's tunic, but in fighting leathers she'd found folded in the wardrobe. They were dark, supple, surprisingly well-fitted, almost as if… thoughtful of Caldan, a small, bitter voice echoed in her mind. He was always one step ahead, always preparing.
The leather felt like a second skin, giving her movements a newfound freedom. She laced up her boots, tying the leather straps tight around her ankles. Every action was deliberate, a preparation for war.
