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Omar.

Ever since the unsettling encounter about the political emergency between Riverath and Zahraan became public yesterday, a heavy shadow has blanketed the household. Cael takes over most of the duties in the second council meeting this morning, and Elara spends the entire time in a state of confusion. Her mind has not stopped spinning over the impending arrival of Omar Zahraani.

She tells herself the garden is enough, but a strange restlessness has begun to grow. She wants something to occupy herself with beyond reading and wandering the palace halls, something that belongs to her in a tangible way. The palace remains enormous, alive with duties and movements that continue around her without ever truly reaching her, and she has started to feel the sharpness of that separation more than before.

Back in Veyrenn, this had been Elara’s life. Endless hours spent confined within her chambers or drifting through corridors with nowhere particular to go, expected to remain graceful, silent, and unobtrusive while the rest of the kingdom moved without her presence mattering within it.

Here, maybe because Riverath feels so alive in comparison, the idleness has become more difficult to endure. A powerful urge to be useful returns, pulsing beneath her thoughts no matter how often she attempts to dismiss the feeling.

The grand dining hall is hollow as she passes it, though the distant kitchens echo with loud chattering and frantic arrangements for the upcoming state dinner. It sounds as though the staff is preparing for a final hurrah before the foreign delegation arrives.

Leaving the corridors of the east wing behind, Elara wanders into a sector of the palace where she has never set foot before. A passing maid steps into the corridor, and Elara’s steps slow. She glances toward the maid beside her, but her companion merely continues forward with tired eyes fixed on the floor, unbothered by the grand architecture of the empty chamber.

“Good morning,” she asks, hoping to fracture the silence.

Looking back, a soft smile touches the maid’s lips. “Good morning to you, Your Highness.”

Elara’s gaze returns to the statue. Decorative is not the word for it. The figure feels almost symbolic, like a declaration of something she does not possess the language to understand just now. Her attention wanders deeper through the palace. Only then does the pattern crystallize in her mind. Everywhere she looks, she sees women. Female knights stand at attention near the walls, armor gleaming beneath the muted morning light, while female guards patrol the corridors with measured discipline, hands resting near their weapons as servants move between them carrying folded linens, trays of food, and baskets of flowers. In a distant sitting area, several young girls laugh amongst themselves while braiding strands of one another’s hair, their voices carrying softly through the space.

The absence becomes impossible to ignore once she notices it. Very few men walk these halls at all.

“Excuse me,” Elara calls to the same maid, who is dusting a few of the tables and glass pots. “Are there only women here?”

The maid nods. “Yes. This side of the palace, the right wing, is reserved entirely for women. The left wing belongs to the men. This area was chosen for us by Her Highness.”

Elara’s eyes widen. “Kaera?”

The maid smiles, her tired expression softening. “Yes. She shows kindness without hesitation. This is where she holds court and gives her orders. Her nature is gentle, but she rules with a firm hand.” A chuckle escapes her as she shakes her head.

Elara smiles at this information about Kaera. The maid’s description of her recalls every moment and mood she has witnessed herself. She now holds back her own chuckle.

The maid glances at her with a wider smile. “Within this wing, most of us simply call her Princess Kaera. She has never corrected it. Sometimes, we feel like Kaera is truly our best friend.”

Elara nods slowly. “That is wonderful. What is your name, dear?”

The maid stops her task momentarily, fully turning to face Elara now. “Maren, Your Highness.”

Studying her exhaustion further, Elara steps forward and takes the feather duster, setting it aside on the floor. “Where is your bedchamber? You look like you are about to faint.”

Maren does not reassure or convince Elara that she is fine. “Just above,” she replies, her voice fainter now.

Elara guides her carefully up the staircase, taking the left path along the upper landing before leading her through the corridor. As they pass, several maids and female knights pause what they are doing to acknowledge them with respectful smiles. A few bow politely in greeting, their deference sincere.

At the very end of the hall, Elara opens the bedchamber door and helps the maid inside. The chamber is spacious without appearing excessive, grand in structure while remaining restrained in decoration. It resembles Elara’s own chamber in design, though smaller in scale and noticeably more personal.

While several framed paintings hang neatly along the walls, soft landscapes rendered in muted tones border a portrait of a young boy standing beside a woman. A four-stringed gittern rests upon a nearby stand, its polished wooden face catching the pale light. The small instrument, built for light and portable melodies, feels out of place in a chamber so heavily defined by unsaid endurance. It anchors the space with a sudden, aching sense of personal history.

Elara steps closer to the canvas, her focus locking onto the brushstrokes of the portrait. Maren notices her attention.

“My son painted that,” Maren says, her smile carrying a fragile grace that grows around an old wound rather than concealing it. “I rarely see him now. My brother is raising him deeper within the kingdom. At least he remembers me.”

Silence follows as Elara’s attention remains fixed on the canvas, tracing the uneven brushstrokes that shape the young boy beside the woman. “How old is he?” she asks.

“Seven,” Maren replies. “Nearly eight.”

“Why is he not with you?” she asks, her focus remaining locked on the portrait as Maren moves slowly toward the bed.

“My work here could not give him the life he deserved,” Maren says with care. “There was no one nearby to help me raise him. His father…” Her voice falters before she gathers herself once more. “He did not stay. In the end, it was only me, and I could not carry both burdens alone. My brother offered to take him in, and I accepted, though it cost me far more than I ever imagined.”