The sun gradually shifted across the sky, painting long, lonely shadows through the high archways of the chamber.
Hours slipped by like sand through her fingers, but Eiravyne remained anchored to the edge of the bed, entirely paralyzed by her own rising panic.
She had built a fortress inside a fortress, hiding behind the heavy wooden doors as the maids bustled in and out.
They brought a tray of lunch that she barely touched, her stomach churning far too violently to entertain the thought of food.
Each time the door clicked open, she held her breath, half-expecting, half-hoping, to see Urag's towering frame fill the doorway.
But he never came.
As dusk began to settle, painting the sky in deep, bruised shades of purple and amber, a maid returned with a tray bearing a pot of fresh, steaming tea.
