the marbled sunlight that filters through the windows of the grand palace warms zoya’s face . her back remains to the rest of the room, and she feels minor discomfort at being within this building rather than the little palace --- like a flower that’s been uprooted and placed within unfamiliar soil . a gilded cage of a thing, this palace was, with all of it’s now - muted grandness and shimmering gold details . though, admittedly, she finds comfort in the new blue kefta that she was granted within the weeks following the destruction of the fold . something familiar within the upheaval ravka experienced .
it should have been imperceptible, particularly with the lack of approaching footsteps that would otherwise give a person away, but the squaller feels a shift within the air . it’s like something physical against her skin, moving as if adjusting around the new body disrupting the stillness . her spine straightens, and she debates for a moment if she should turn to face her company --- ultimately, tradition and respect for the throne wins . “ you’re late, you know . ” it’s a simple greeting, accompanied by a subtle arch of her brow . then, a moment later, voice only losing a fraction of it’s wryness, “ moi tsar . ”
random starter bc @cleverscar demanded it
