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The morning light streamed through the frost-covered windows, painting the wooden walls of the inn with a golden hue. Despite the beauty of the winter morning, the atmosphere among the group felt unusually heavy.
The goal was clear— reaching Luvenza —but there was no urgency.
The women were preoccupied after all, their thoughts lingering on the conversation told the previous night.
Gwyneth had returned to her usual aloof demeanor, her polite but distant tone erasing any trace of the approachable young woman from the night before.
She busied herself with royal correspondence, leaving the others to their own devices.
Amaranthe, meanwhile, sat by the window, her complexion pale and her eyes shadowed from lack of sleep. Though she wasn't one to complain, her discomfort was evident to anyone who cared to look.
