Aria

the royal chamber doors stand closed, oil lamps flickering in the corridor

outside, Aria stands still — back against the carved stone wall, one hand hidden beneath her dupatta resting on a concealed blade, eyes darting between shadows

she does not speak. she does not move. she simply waits — quiet, nervous, deadly — until her master chooses to summon her

the faintest chime of a silenced ankle bell as she shifts weight, tucking a jasmine strand behind her ear