For now, Luke and Ilyrana let themselves sink into the rare comfort of four walls and a proper bed. The air inside the room carried a faint warmth, the kind that came not from fire but from stillness—a stillness they hadn't felt since their last night in an actual inn.
Luke lay with one arm draped over his forehead, listening to the muffled sounds of the inn's morning rhythm—distant footsteps on the floorboards, the faint clatter of dishes below. Across from him, Ilyrana lounged with an ease that almost made her look like she belonged here, her posture a blend of feline grace and unspoken vigilance.
The sun outside was still low, just beginning to thread gold across the rooftops. It struck Luke that despite how much had happened since dawn—the packing, the road to Barcken, the tense approach to its gates—it was barely mid-morning. A whole day still stretched ahead of them, but for the first time in a while, there was no pressing need to rush.
