Old mistress

"Mistress."

The old woman lifted her head, threads of silver coiled tightly into a knot at her nape, her fingers pausing mid-stitch. She turned toward the voice, her gaze sharp beneath hooded lids. Her garments were not of the Western provinces, no, this woman was dressed in the silken wraps of the Cave-Mill her waist belted with lacquered beads, her sleeves long enough to brush the earth.

The attendants and servants around them bowed their heads as though on cue, their movements swift and reverent.

Ambrosia did not bend. Her chin remained high, her eyes steady. She stepped forward, silent save for the soft hiss of her shoes against stone. With neither hesitation nor challenge, she lowered herself to sit beside the old matron, close enough to acknowledge her presence, but not near enough to feign submission.

Respect was shown but never surrendered.

The old lady resumed her embroidery.