AYLETH
She'd dragged herself to bed the night before somewhere between bored and despairing. She'd fallen asleep the moment her head hit the pillow, which was a mercy. But then she kept waking having dreamed of Etan—always close, but she could never quite reach him, never touch him. And the more she tried, the more frightened he became and the further he drew from reach.
She woke in a cold sweat more than once—somehow still burning and aching inside—so when the maid woke her late as instructed, she still wasn't rested.
"We need to get you prepared for your ride with Sir Trystan," the maid said with a warm smile. Ayleth nodded and tried to return it, but honestly she'd have preferred to stay in bed and pull the quilt over her head.
How was she going to make it through the next twelve days? Eleven, she reminded herself. It was eleven now.
