Far beyond the Night Court, where golden light still lingered in memory and faith, the quiet hills of the Dawn Vale lay bathed in a perpetual softness. The Dawn Court had fallen generations ago, its temples broken, its name erased from many tongues but its blood had not vanished.
It lived on in her.
Lady Naira, last known descendant of High Priestess Imara, stood at the edge of the cliffside garden, her fingers trailing through the lavender blossoms that swayed in the morning wind.
The sun had only just crested the hills, casting long, honey-gold beams through the mist.
She was not a princess, nor a courtier. Not anymore. Her days were spent tending the forgotten rites, preserving songs that had not been sung in courts for a century.
But the blood of priestesses still flowed in her, and in her presence there was a grace that time could not dim.
