Enara stood in the training yard, boots planted in the cold, damp sand, and told herself she wasn't waiting for anyone. She was, of course, but telling herself otherwise was a vital exercise in dignity. The moon hung fat and opaline above the castle roofs, peering down like a nosy aunt who was determined to see how much family drama could fit into one evening.
Her fingers flexed. Her breath formed little clouds. She wore the oldest, most comfortable sparring clothes she owned soft cotton, scuffed at the knees and elbows, the faint memory of Liria's laughter still caught in the hem from a hundred midnight games of tag and poorly-choreographed duels. Sometimes, she could almost forget all the ways things had broken. Almost.
