The carriage rolled back through the palace gates as the light over Nevareth began to deepen into a bruised, royal purple.
The frantic energy of the market was behind them now, reduced to the muffled clatter of wheels on stone and the quiet, rhythmic breathing of a day that had been more exhausting than either of them would care to admit.
Stacked carefully on the seat opposite them were the spoils of Eris's outing. She had spent a considerable amount of time selecting three specific kinds of fabric, the softest, most resilient weaves available in the capital, in colors she had debated over with a furrowed brow.
Along with the textiles were the tools of a trade she had not practiced in years: fine needles, specialized thread, and small, delicate instruments for the kind of detailed work that required a steady hand and a quiet mind.
Interspersed with the crafting supplies were the greasy, fragrant remains of street food from four different stalls.
