The next morning dawned cold, at least for the summer season. Lyria woke with a chill, just as the sun began to peek its first rays of sun through her window. She placed her feet on the unseasonably cold floor and saw that the fire in her hearth had gone out. She drew a silken blanket around her shoulders as she stood, approaching her wardrobe to choose her outfit for the fourth contest.
Unlike the other contests, this was a competition of physical skill. Lyria therefore flicked past the decorated, beautiful, delicate dresses toward the cruder, but sturdier, britches and linen shirts she had brought with her. Though not as ornate, and certainly not as flattering, they were much more practical.
And while Lyria wanted more than anything to appear beautiful before the King, she also had no
