She could hear the looms.
Sandry knew the walls of the palace were thick, thicker than the magical seals that had kept her in that storeroom those long weeks. She knew the looms were further away than the mob had been, on the other side of the door, when their disjointed chanting faded away. But she could still hear the looms, and made the conscious choice not to dwell on it.
They ought to have disturbed her sleep. Sandry wasn't used to ever-present noise, especially after... after her past weeks. There had been silence except for her whispered words echoing around the room, when she dared, and her brief, useless tries to sing. But in the early hours of morning - she assumed - the looms made her feel less lonely.
It was affirmation the people of the city were alive, where before she'd truly thought they might all have died and simply continued on as ghosts, because clinging stubbornly on was all they knew.