Between all the dirt, blood, and dust, Lyra, despite already having bathed once, found herself heading back again.
Her body felt grimy, her skin uncomfortable beneath the layers of sweat and grime, and her hair—gods, her hair—was a knotted mess of dust and dried blood.
The thought of untangling it made her groan aloud. There were guests waiting downstairs, important ones, and showing up in her current state would be disgraceful.
But the effort it would take to return to a presentable form made her shoulders sag with dread.
She stepped into the bath chamber—a massive, domed structure separate from her main room, more like a private indoor spring than a mere bathhouse.
Steam hung thick in the air, rolling off the wide surface of constantly replenished hot water. The scent of lavender and juniper clung to the humidity, calming yet heavy.
And then she saw someone else already there.
