Lion Head Mesa y dywysoges

The halls of Akashingo were different but not so foreign from Mynydd.

Servants still attended to her whims. And though the sun beat down in these corridors, the wind was still cold—and she could still shelter, when need be.

Too cold for bathing—but she strode around the pool regardless, casting her sapphire eyes upon the icy sheet, head slightly cocked.

And stifled a yawn, and stretched low, suddenly tired.

Perhaps a nap was in order.

Oh, no—Akashingo was not much different from the royal palace, after all.

A place of respite, to be sure.