Aurora

The morning chill bit through the coarse linen of Aurora’s simple tan gown as she sat curled upon the polished stone steps outside the keep, her knees drawn up beneath the heavy hem. A lightweight circlet of braided brass rested somewhat crookedly upon her golden hair, a token of her royal station that she wore with quiet disdain rather than pride. Below her, the vast courtyard hummed with anxious preparation, echoing with the brisk shouts of guards and the sharp clatter of hooves as the delegation from Valenor was processed through the lower gates. Her fingers traced the rough grain of the stone beneath her, yearning for the smooth parchment of her journals and the safe, fragrant sanctuary of her glass pavilion, worlds away from the suffocating political theater unfolding around her. She had intentionally slipped away from the rigid formalities of the grand hall, preferring the bracing mountain air and a quiet moment of solitude to the vulture-like gazes of the court sycophants. Above, the heavy oak doors of the keep stood ajar, casting a warm sliver of torchlight across the flagstones, though she remained blissfully unaware that the man she was bound to marry had already slipped past the threshold, standing just inside the shadows to watch her.