The bed-chamber had grown cold by the time the tallow candles finally guttered out into their saucers.
The moon, which had been bright enough to cast the grain of the floorboards onto the plaster walls, had slipped behind the dark western ridge, leaving the room to the heavy, thick ink of the third hour.
The great stone palace around them lay perfectly still, its corridors empty of everything but the low, rhythmic scrape of the night-guards' boots three floors below.
Eris was half asleep, her head propped against Soren's bare shoulder, her limbs heavy with the deep, clean exhaustion that only comes when the blood has run hot for hours.
She didn't open her eyes when the mattress shifted under his thigh. Her mouth stayed soft, her breathing a small, even hiss that puffed against the grey hair on his chest.
