The air inside the royal tent was still warm, holding onto the last traces of night like a secret.
The mage-lamps had dimmed themselves to a soft amber glow, barely lighting the heavy folds of dark blue canopy above the bed. Shadows pooled in the corners, gentle and unmoving. Outside, the camp was quiet, but in here the world felt even smaller—shrunk down to breath, skin, and the slow drizzle of exhaustion after too much feeling at once.
Elowen slept quietly beside him.
Her silver hair lay scattered over the pillows like spilled moonlight, some strands sticking to her cheek, some tangled around his fingers from earlier when she'd pulled his hand into her hair and refused to let go. The blankets had slipped a little down her shoulder, revealing the pale curve of her collarbone and the faint reddish marks along her throat and chest—evidence of how desperately she had needed him.
Marks only he would ever see.
Mikhailis lay on his side, propped on one elbow, just… watching.
