Malvoria had grown accustomed to waiting.
It was a skill forged in battle and politics, in sleepless nights with Kaelith's feverish cries, and in the hush that sometimes settled over the castle when Elysia wandered off to comfort another soul.
Tonight, she waited in their bedroom, moonlight spilling over stone floors and the soft, regular breathing of her daughter filling the room like a lullaby.
Kaelith had finally surrendered to sleep, sprawled sideways across her pillow like a tiny conqueror, fist wrapped around a stray piece of silk from Malvoria's nightrobe.
Malvoria tucked the child in more securely and sat at the edge of the bed, lost in the quiet that came only when the day was truly finished.
She heard the footsteps before she heard the voice—soft at first, then increasingly insistent as the owner tried, and failed, to remain inconspicuous.
