Eiravyne didn't remember falling asleep.
One moment, she had been staring at the garden, at the empty space Urag had left behind.
The next, she was being shaken awake, frantic whispers tugging her out of the abyss of sleep.
"My lady—wake up, please, wake up—"
"Oh, heavens, she's freezing! Someone, fetch a shawl—"
"I told you we should've checked the gardens earlier—"
Her eyes fluttered open to a flurry of movement. Hands—soft, urgent—grasped her shoulders, brushing her hair from her face.
A thick woolen shawl was draped over her in an instant, the warmth a stark contrast to the cool night air.
The castle loomed behind the maids, its torches flickering weakly against the dark. The moon hung high. It was the dead of night.
Eiravyne blinked sluggishly, disoriented. "W-What…" Her voice cracked, throat dry. "What's happening…?"
The maids looked at each other, their panic barely contained.
