Morning came for Lara as a gentle torment a gray, watery light sliding between the curtains, nudging her awake long before any sane soul would rise.
For once, her body didn't ache from battle or training, but something deeper gnawed at her.
The memory of yesterday hovered, heavy and inescapable: Sarisa's startled eyes, her own humiliation, Malvoria's teasing, and Isla's sudden, sultry reappearance.
The mortification lingered, sharp as a knife's edge. Sleep had offered little comfort—her dreams were a chaotic tangle of running, reaching, always chasing after something she couldn't quite catch.
She blinked at the ceiling, heart already beating faster, as if anticipating a fight. But there would be no dragons or duels this morning. Just Sarisa, and the truth that felt almost as frightening.
Lara swung her legs over the side of the bed, stretching long and slow, rolling the stiffness from her shoulders.
She stood, rolling her neck, breathing in the chill air. The castle was quiet—this early, only the servants and night guards would be awake, patrolling the shadowy halls.
She padded to the washbasin, splashing cold water on her face, then peeling off her sleep shirt and stepping into the adjoining shower.
The water, blessedly warm this time, sluiced away the last traces of sleep and left her feeling just barely human.
You should apologize. The thought had circled in her mind since last night, looping endlessly.
Not just for barging into Sarisa's room, for the humiliation and the mess, but for all of it—years of half-spoken things, for making her co-parent's life harder when it should have been simpler, for running away when things got complicated.
She wanted to make things right, even if she didn't know where to start.
After a brisk toweling off, she pulled on a clean shirt—white, soft, worn at the cuffs—and black trousers.
No uniform, nothing to remind Sarisa of the woman who could wound a prince or throw a lover from a window. She ran her fingers through her hair, tying it back in a loose knot, then considered herself in the mirror.
The face that stared back at her was familiar but slightly haunted: the sharp cheekbones, the faint scars, the stubborn set to her jaw.
"Don't fuck it up," she whispered to her own reflection.
She considered waiting until a more reasonable hour, but the urge to move, to do, was overwhelming.
If she lingered in her rooms, she'd just lose her nerve or, worse, run into Malvoria and suffer a repeat of yesterday's torture. Best to be useful. Best to show Sarisa, with her actions, that she could be better.
So she made her way through the half-lit halls to the administrative wing—Sarisa's private office, where she waged daily war against paper, bureaucracy, and the endless demands of court life.
The desk was piled high with correspondence, reports, and petitions. Lara's stomach tightened; she hated this kind of work, the endless words, the stifling sense of confinement.
Give her a battlefield, a squad of rowdy recruits, a monster to fight—that was where she excelled. But Sarisa had always managed this part alone, shouldering it all with elegant, relentless efficiency.
Not today, Lara decided. You're going to make her life easier, for once.
She pulled up a chair, surveyed the battlefield, and got to work.
She read quickly—decisively—sorting the papers by urgency, answering those that required only routine responses, signing her name in neat, slanting script.
Where something was unclear, she jotted a quick note in the margins for Sarisa. She made a mental list of what required her co-parent's personal attention and what could be delegated to the council.
Her mind, sharper than she'd ever admit, devoured the information with military precision.
All those years handling Malvoria's logistics and Veylira's war plans served her well here. Within an hour, the mountain of paperwork was reduced to a small, organized stack, ready for Sarisa's review.
By the time she finished, the castle was beginning to stir. Footsteps echoed in the halls, distant voices murmured, the clatter of pots in the kitchens announced the approach of morning proper.
Lara stood, stretching her arms overhead, allowing herself a brief moment of satisfaction.
She didn't enjoy the work, but she could do it—better than most, even if she'd rather be anywhere else. She gathered the finished work, stacked it neatly, and left a note on the desk: Sorted, signed, and ready for you. —L.
But one thing remained: breakfast. If she was going to face Sarisa, she was going to do it right.
The castle kitchen was already alive with noise and energy when she arrived—servants bustling, cooks barking orders, the aroma of fresh bread and honey and something sweet.
Most of them barely glanced up at Lara—her presence, though unusual, was not cause for alarm.
One young scullion, new and still a little afraid of the demon in their midst, bobbed a quick curtsy before ducking behind a pile of apples.
Lara ignored the attention, moving confidently to the pantry and assembling a tray with Sarisa's favorites: spiced tea, honeyed bread, sliced fruit, a wedge of soft cheese, a tiny glass jar of preserved cherries.
She added an extra roll, just in case Aliyah or Kaelith woke early and came looking for treats.
She balanced the tray on one strong hand, steady as a soldier on parade, and made her way back to the royal apartments.
She walked slowly, giving herself time to gather her thoughts, rehearse her apology, steel herself for whatever reaction she might receive.
The hall outside Sarisa's chamber was empty—too early for guards, too late for night patrols. The silence felt almost sacred, the world hushed and expectant.
Lara stopped outside Sarisa's door, breath caught in her throat. She stared at the polished wood, the familiar pattern of golden inlay, and told herself to be brave.
She was not here as a soldier or a general, not even as Aliyah's mother.
She was here as Lara, trying—fumblingly—to make things right with the only woman she'd ever truly wanted.
She closed her eyes for a moment, grounding herself in the simple sensation of the tray's weight, the warmth of the tea rising toward her face.
Then, drawing in a steadying breath, she lifted her free hand and knocked softly—three quick raps, gentle enough not to startle, firm enough to be heard.
For a moment, she waited—heart pounding, mind racing through apologies and explanations and everything she wished she'd said years ago. But no answer came. The silence stretched, growing heavier.
She knocked again, a little louder this time. Still nothing.
Too early, she realized. She's not back from her morning walk, or she's with Aliyah, or maybe…
She almost left—almost took the tray and retreated, content to leave the peace offering behind and run from the possibility of rejection. But something stubborn in her refused. She'd started this; she would finish it.
So she set the tray carefully on the small table beside the door, arranging the dishes just so, and straightened her shirt, smoothing the fabric with trembling hands. She raised her fist, ready to knock a third time, then hesitated.
What if she was awake, but avoiding Lara? The thought stung, sharper than she'd expected.
She pressed her palm to the door, feeling the cool wood under her skin, and took a deep, shaky breath.
Say something. Anything. Just don't run.