The morning sun had begun its aggressive climb, baking the scent of wet earth and jasmine into the thick ulin walls of Nala’s private chamber. Inside, the atmosphere was heavy—a dense, expectant vacuum left behind after Nala’s restorative trance on Plumeria's lap. He stood by the central table, his back to the door, a dark silhouette of regained power. The tremors of exhaustion that had plagued him were gone, replaced by a stillness that felt like the pause before a landslide.
A soft brush of fabric announced Mayangkara’s arrival. Plumeria led her in, the two women moving like shadows against the polished wood. Plumeria caught Nala’s eye for a brief second—a silent exchange of duty completed, of a Master returned to his senses—before she bowed her head and stepped back out into the corrid
