Morning broke softly over Eldham, the light spilling in through the inn's small window like warm ribbons stretching across the wooden floorboards. Ilyrana stirred first, the faint chirping outside tugging her out of sleep. She blinked a few times, letting her eyes adjust to the gentle brightness, before pushing herself upright.
Luke was still out cold.
He lay sprawled half off his pillow, one arm dangling dramatically off the side of the bed, blanket twisted around him as if he'd wrestled with it through half the night. His hair was a mess—more than usual—and his breathing had that uneven, restless rhythm that suggested his dreams hadn't been relaxing in the slightest. But Ilyrana didn't know any of that; to her, he was simply a late riser again.
She watched him a moment, almost fondly. He looked peaceful when he wasn't talking, panicking, or accidentally stumbling into trouble. Almost dignified. Almost.
