The weekend arrived not with the celebrated fanfare of a city at rest, but with a heavy, bruised-grey sky that seemed to sag under the weight of its own unshed tears. For the rest of the world, Saturday morning meant sleeping in, the smell of pancakes, and the blissful ignorance of their responsibilities. But that wasn't the case for Amara.
She stood in the grand foyer, staring at herself in the tall mirror. She looked different. Over the last few months, the "cleaning lady turned personal assistant" had been replaced by a woman who walked with her shoulders back, someone who had learned to breathe the same air as High Lords and witches.
A shadow fell over her reflection, swallowing the light. She didn't need to turn to know it was Darien. His presence was a physical pressure, a magnetic pull of sandalwood and cold iron that always centered her.
