"Your Grace… Your Grace…"
Oriana stirred at the voice that seemed to seep gently through the fragile veil of her dreams.
The sound tugged her back to wakefulness as pale morning light spilled into the room, slipping through the tall windows and washing the chamber in a soft, golden glow.
Her lashes fluttered before her eyes slowly opened—only to squeeze shut again at the brightness that had found its way inside. A faint groan escaped her lips as her hands lifted, rubbing at her eyes while she pushed herself upright.
She yawned quietly, her hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders. As she turned to the side, she raised her hands to stretch, earning a few soft cracks from her joints.
There stood Layla.
The maid's head was respectfully bowed, her hands folded neatly before her as she spoke with the careful politeness of the exact words she always said every morning.
"Good morning, Queen Oriana. Your bath is ready."
Yet the words scarcely reached Oriana's mind.
