The queen's private balcony overlooked the Deepwood Canopy, where ancient trees stretched so high their crowns vanished into a permanent mist.
Queen Myrasyn sat cross-legged on a silk cushion embroidered with silver rootwork, her robe parted just enough to reveal the full, pale length of her legs folded beneath her. The fabric was sheer where it clung to her thighs and opaque where it mattered, though the line between the two shifted with every small movement she made.
Elven royal loungewear was designed with a philosophy that could be summarized as: suggest everything, confirm nothing.
A porcelain cup rested between her fingers. Moonpetal tea. The leaves had been harvested under starlight from blossoms that only opened once every three years, steeped at precisely the perfect temperature, and served in a cup so thin it was nearly translucent.
It tasted like warm flowers and cost more than a house.
Myrasyn sipped.
Her lips curved against the rim.
