Sunlight spilled through the tall arched windows of Serelith Vyrel's tower-chamber, turning the silver runes on the violet drapes into tiny mirrors that scattered specks of dawn across the floor. She woke before the first bell—a miracle her sleepy apprentices would gossip about for days—and stretched like a satisfied cat beneath silk sheets.
Air smelled of lavender, moon-flower, and the faint bite of crystal dust from last night's spellwork. Usually she rose with languid grace, letting servants fuss with her hair while she plotted new mischief, but today a bright thrill bubbled behind her ribs. She hummed—actually hummed—as she swung bare feet to the rug and swept her long violet hair over one shoulder.
