Dawn filtered through the curtains, a faint golden light that crossed the room like a memory still hesitant to exist. The fire in the grate had died out hours ago, leaving only slumbering embers, breathing slowly. The silence was almost absolute—only the soft sound of her breath, warm against his chest, and the distant crackle of the cool wood.
Damon opened his eyes slowly.
It took him a few seconds to realize where he was. The polished wooden ceiling, the smell of burning herbs, the light warmth on his body—it all brought him back. His arm was heavy, and beneath it, Aria's small, warm body remained still, as if the world had stopped there.
For a moment, he just stared. Her hair was spread across the pillow, golden in the morning light, and her face—calm, unmasked, unmoored—seemed almost different. Not the sassy apprentice, nor the impetuous mage who defied everything, but an exhausted woman, breathing peacefully after a long time.
