She's relentless! Amriel thought as she hurried to keep pace with Kortana. The Coven Leader moved with unwavering purpose through the grand reception chamber, her presence commanding respect without effort. Amriel followed in her wake, their path taking them past towering fluted columns of pale marble that seemed to support the very heavens, while intricately wrought chandeliers suspended overhead cast the entire space in a wash of golden witchlight illumination. Their footsteps created a rhythmic echo against the polished floors, the sound amplified as they passed through a narrow connecting corridor.
Beyond the Coven Leader's study, the character of the passageways transformed noticeably—the architecture becoming less ceremonial and more reverent. These inner sanctums exuded an atmosphere of hushed dedication to ancient practices. High arched windows lined the walls at carefully calculated intervals, allowing the late afternoon sunlight to pour through in disciplined shafts that created long ribbons of gold across the immaculate stone floor. The air itself felt different here—deliberately serene, meticulously ordered—a perfect reflection of Kortana's own carefully controlled demeanor.
As they entered a smaller chamber decorated with constellations and symbols inlaid in silver against the deep blue ceiling, two young acolytes in rich plum robes stood waiting.
Both appeared to be in their sixteenth year—one standing slightly taller with hair the warm golden hue of summer wheat, the other with striking raven-black locks. Each wore their hair in an identical simple braid.
Four circlets adored each of their right arms, marking them as fourth circle witches.
As they stepped into a smaller chamber, two acolytes in plum robes already waited—the girls were no older than sixteen. One taller, with hair the colour summer wheat, and the other with raven-black hair, both were twisted into a simple braid.
With synchronized precision that spoke of rigorous training, both young women bowed their heads respectfully at Kortana's approach, maintaining perfect posture despite the deference of the gesture. The Coven Leader addressed the golden-haired acolyte first, her tone direct and authoritative: "Summon a carriage to take Niamh home. I want you to ensure she arrives there safely—personally."
Without a word, the fair-haired acolyte acknowledged the command with a single fluid bow before departing with purposeful strides that barely disturbed the air around her.
Kortana then turned her attention to the raven-haired young woman who remained, her posture still impeccably formal despite the absence of her companion. "Amriel," the Coven Leader said with a gesture that somehow managed to be both elegant and dismissive, "this is Lyana. She will oversee your preparations for the royal audience."
"Oh, I don't think that is necessary," Amriel protested, discomfort evident in her voice at the prospect of such formality.
Kortana's response was not immediate. Instead, her dark eyes conducted a deliberate assessment of Amriel, beginning at her mud-flecked boots and traveling upward past her worn leggings, herb-stained tunic, and finally to her wind-tangled hair. The evaluation was neither cruel nor kind—merely clinical, like a jeweler appraising an uncut stone. When she finally spoke, it was not to Amriel but to the waiting acolyte, her tone brooking no possibility of debate: "Prepare her." With those two words delivered, she swept from the chamber without a backward glance, the soft rustle of her robes fading into silence.
Lyana's expression remained carefully neutral throughout this exchange, her features schooled into the perfect mask of Coven discipline. Yet Amriel, accustomed to reading subtle cues from years of observing patients' responses to treatments, noticed the almost imperceptible stiffening of the young woman's shoulders—a momentary tension that might indicate either reluctance at the abrupt command or perhaps apprehension at being tasked with readying an outsider, and a poor one at that, for royal presentation.
Lyana's dark eyes, the color of rich soil after rain, conducted their own assessment—swift but thorough, noting every detail from Amriel's calloused palms to the herb residue beneath her fingernails. When she finally spoke, her voice carried the quiet authority of someone trained to expect immediate compliance: "Follow me." The words formed not a request but an unmistakable directive.
Amriel released a measured breath, mentally preparing herself for what was to come. Here we go.
She led Amriel through a side doorway into an adjoining chamber dominated by a recessed alcove where a magnificent claw-footed porcelain tub stood in silent grandeur. The vessel, large enough to comfortably accommodate even someone of exceptional height, was already filled to its curved rim with water that captured and reflected the ambient witch-light, creating an almost luminous surface that invited immersion.
A bath.
A hot bath.
For one transcendent moment, the cumulative weight of everything that had transpired—Kortana's inscrutable expressions, the ancient prophecy that still echoed within Amriel's very marrow, the intimidating prospect of standing before the King—all of it momentarily dissolved before the simple, profound luxury presented before her.
Her attention then shifted to what awaited her after the bath. Upon a polished rosewood stool with intricately carved legs rested a gown crafted of fabric so fine it appeared to flow like water even while motionless, its color a profound cobalt blue that precisely matched Amriel's own eyes—not by coincidence, she was certain, but by deliberate magical adaptation. Silver embroidery adorned the neckline and sleeves in patterns that suggested constellations and ancient runes, each stitched with such precision that they seemed to move subtly when viewed from different angles.
Even without touching it, she intuitively recognized its exceptional quality. This was textile artistry beyond anything she had ever worn—perhaps beyond anything she had ever seen outside the wardrobes of nobility during festival processions.
And it reeked of Power.
Amriel frowned, her brow furrowing as she regarded the garment with suspicion rather than awe. "This seems unnecessary. Can I not have a clean tunic and pants?"
"You are going before the King," Lyana replied without emotion, her voice as smooth and cool as polished marble. Her eyes betrayed neither impatience nor understanding—merely absolute certainty. "And you arrive in the company of the Coven Leader. No. You will not be allowed to embarrass us."
"Come," the acolyte continued, gesturing toward the waiting bath. "The water is enchanted to maintain its temperature, but even magic has its limits."
Amriel's gaze returned to the steaming tub, watching as delicate wisps of vapor spiraled upward like ghostly fingers reaching for the ceiling. This time it was the scent of morrow root and rosewood that hung thick in the chamber, warm and grounding.
For common folk like herself, heating sufficient water for bathing required precious fuel—wood that took considerable effort to gather and prepare, wood that was typically reserved for cooking and for keeping deadly winter chills at bay. All Amriel had ever known was the bracing shock of cold water against her skin, the swift, efficient cleansing that was more necessity than pleasure.
But here, Power bent to convenience. A simple spell, a flicker of power, and the water was warmed to perfection.
Still, she hesitated, fingers lingering uncertainly at the hem of her tunic, caught between desire for the luxury before her and wariness of what accepting it might signify.
The acolyte stood by, unmoving, watching but offering no impatience.
With a slow breath, Amriel stripped off her dust-streaked tunic and trousers. The cool chamber air raised gooseflesh across her exposed skin as she approached the tub, steam rising to meet her like an invitation.
She stepped into the water's waiting embrace.
Heat—glorious, all-encompassing heat—claimed her instantly.
A sound somewhere between a gasp and a sigh escaped her lips before she could compose herself, her body surrendering to the warmth with an instinctive abandon that bypassed her usual guardedness. Muscles she hadn't even realized were tense began to yield as she submerged herself to her collarbones.
Gods.
It felt divine.
"Let me know if you require it warmer or cooler," Lyana said, stepping away and began to prepare only what Amriel could assume was her outfit for the evening.
Amriel let her fingers skim the water's surface, watching as tiny ripples expanded outward.
"It's perfect," she said, voice quieter than intended.
She wanted to relax—gods, she did—but her mind refused to uncoil completely.
Though her body luxuriated in the bath's embrace, her mind stubbornly refused to fully unwind. Thoughts continued to circle—the prophecy's weight, Kortana's knowing eyes, the royal audience that awaited her. She knew this moment of respite was borrowed, temporary.
Just then, something shifted in the air.
A pulse. A ripple.
Amriel immediately sensed the currents of Power that emanated from the young acolyte—earnest but still developing, lacking the seamless refinement that characterized Kortana's workings.
The sponge resting on the tub's edge lifted, suspended by invisible hands, before dipping into the water and pressing against her back. Gentle, practiced strokes worked away the grime, while a second force moved through her dark hair, fingers of unseen power untangling and smoothing through the knots.
Amriel's body tensed reflexively, her breath catching—then deliberately released as she forced herself to accept the strange sensation.
She should have expected this. Of course the witches wouldn't sully their hands with something so mundane as bathing one such as herself.
Still, the sensation of being tended to by nothing at all set her teeth on edge and made the fine hairs along her arms rise despite the bath's warmth.
She needed something to ground herself, to make this moment feel real.
"Where are you from, Lyana?" she asked, her voice steady despite the tightness in her chest.
The acolyte, busy arranging what appeared to be layers of fine fabric on a nearby table, hesitated just for a breath before answering.
"Sa'Dral," she said, the two syllables pronounced with the subtle inflection that only a native speaker would know.
Amriel's fingers twitched beneath the water.
Sa'Dral.
The coastal kingdom that had birthed her mother—small in territory but rich in cultural influence, positioned at the critical southern trade routes that connected Khymarh to the distant eastern empires. Its people were distinctive: bronze-skinned, straight-haired, with almond-shaped eyes that could reflect either seafaring hardiness or scholarly contemplation. Their frames tended toward the compact but powerful, bodies adapted to both navigation and survival. Her mother's unusual affinity for forest lore had marked her as different among her people, who typically turned their gaze to the horizon rather than inland.
She studied Lyana for a moment—the curve of her cheekbones, the subtle golden undertone of her skin, the way her dark eyes flickered with something unreadable.
"You remind me of my mother," Amriel said, the admission rising unbidden.
Lyana glanced up, her gaze sharp.
"Don't move," the acolyte said briskly, her tone shifting to something firm and unwavering. "Or else the spell I've set to untangle this ungodly mess will rip your hair out instead. And we can't present you to the King with bald patches, now can we?"
Amriel exhaled softly, allowing herself to sink deeper into the water's embrace.
"Charming," she muttered.
Though Lyana maintained her composed demeanor, something almost imperceptible shifted at the corner of her mouth—not quite a smile, but perhaps the acknowledgment that under different circumstances, in a different setting, such an exchange might have led to genuine conversation.
"Rest while you can," she advised, returning her attention to the preparations with renewed focus. "You won't get another chance tonight."
Amriel wanted to argue—wanted to insist that she didn't need rest, that she had survived worse than a simple audience with a King.
But something in the weight of Lyana's words—the quiet certainty of them—made her pause.
For once, she surrendered to wisdom not her own.
She closed her eyes.
And she allowed herself, however briefly, to be still.
The Acolyte signalled the end of the bath when the water began to cool, and rather rapidly.
Time's up. Amriel sighed.
Lyana's voice confirmed it. "It's time to dress."
Amriel opened her eyes, reluctantly surfacing from the brief moment of peace. Suspended in the air before her, a deep emerald towel hovered, waiting. She reached for it, the fabric plush and rich against her skin, a stark contrast to the rough, threadbare linens she was used to.
She dried herself in silence, aware of Lyana's patient presence nearby. When she was done, the acolyte handed her a robe—no words, no needless gestures, just the silent efficiency of someone trained in duty above all else.
Once she'd dried off, the acolyte handed her a white robe without another word, and Amriel slipped it on, the rich fabric cool and weighty against her skin.
"Follow me," Lyana said, already moving.
Amriel fell into step behind her, barefoot against the polished stone, passing through an arched doorway into another chamber.