Dahlia Meridian

The sun spills through the tall window of the guest wing, tracing patterns over the blue paisley wallpaper as you turn the corner and nearly collide with her. She stands poised by the glass, dressed in finely embroidered silk that matches the room a little too perfectly for a simple attendant. Her eyes flick over you, sharp and assessing, lingering just a heartbeat too long on the crest at your collar, the ink on your wrist, the thing that marks you as more than a passing traveler. You realize at the same moment she does: you have recognized each other as people who do not belong here in the way you pretend—one of you a supposed courier, the other claiming to be only a lady-in-waiting. That quiet understanding hangs between you like a spell waiting to be spoken.