The walk back to their shared chambers was slow and easy, the kind of pace that needed no urgency, no excuse.
Malvoria walked beside Elysia with one hand resting at the small of her back, fingers trailing over the folds of her shawl.
They didn't speak there was no need. The soft rhythm of their footsteps along polished stone, the occasional flicker of torchlight catching silver hair and red eyes, was conversation enough.
When they reached the doors to their suite, Malvoria let Elysia step in first.
The room had changed.
Not in grand ways no banners or dramatic carvings but in quiet, precise adjustments that had made all the difference.
The absurdly oversized ceremonial blades that once hung above the fireplace (replicas of "trophies," according to Malvoria's mother) were gone.
In their place was a silver-framed mirror, enchanted to reflect light even when the fire dimmed.
