Mira collapsed in the garden just after midday.
One moment she was standing, signing something to Emery about the kitchen gardens—how they reminded her of the palace, but better, cleaner, without the constant shadow of fear. The next moment her face turned grey and her knees buckled.
Emery caught her before she struck the ground, though barely. Mira was lighter than she should have been. She had always been too thin, even in the palace. Yet dead weight was still dead weight. Emery lowered her carefully onto the grass, calling for help, her heart pounding against her ribs.
Elara arrived within minutes, her Khursaga calm unshaken by the urgency of the moment. She knelt beside Mira, her weathered hands moving with gentle precision. She checked the pulse, lifted Mira's eyelids, pressed here and there while Mira's eyes fluttered and struggled to focus.
"Help me bring her inside," Elara said.
