Your lips are swollen

The ball gradually wound down as the final notes of the orchestra's serenade lingered in the air. Guests began to depart, their laughter and conversations ebbing away into the night. Me and Zephara, too, prepared to leave, our hands brushing against each other with a familiarity that spoke of a shared history and an uncertain future.

As we approached the ornate carriage that awaited them, the night seemed to hold its breath, the stars above shimmering like a promise. 

Just as we were near the carriage, a voice called out, "Zephara!" It was her mother, the former queen, her tone carrying an authority that demanded immediate attention. Zephara's posture stiffened, and she turned to face the matriarch, her expression a carefully crafted mask of neutrality.

"Mother," Zephara acknowledged with a nod, her voice betraying none of the emotions that I knew roiled beneath the surface. I remembered how they had argue the last time we visited their castle