Mana-filtered sunlight spilled into the suite's high-arched windows, catching on polished crystal fixtures and gilded furniture with quiet grace. The luxury hotel in the heart of Caerwyn, capital of Velmora, felt more like a noble's manor than a temporary residence.
Silken drapes whispered in the breeze. Somewhere below, aethercars hummed across canal bridges while enchantments sang faintly from the city's arcane infrastructure.
Alaric stood by the balcony, sipping a cup of morning tea distilled from elemental snowbuds. Its subtle bite was more meditative than refreshing, which suited him. Behind him, the others stirred lazily.
Aurevia practiced sword forms in silence, blade whispering through the air—graceful, restrained, and precise, like the noble lady she refused to act like.
