Lydia's eyes softened, and a silence settled over them that felt strangely intimate. She rested her chin on her hand, her pose informal, almost wistful. It was such an unexpected shift from her usual poised elegance that it disarmed Jerica. Lydia no longer looked like a formidable matriarch wielding influence with the flick of a wrist; she looked like a woman who had seen love bloom and wither, who knew the sharp edges of loyalty and the raw ache of betrayal.
"You know," Lydia began, her voice gentler now, as if they were sharing secrets over tea, "once, a long time ago, I thought I understood what it meant to hold someone so close that the world could burn and you wouldn't notice."
