The bath was already filled with warmth—steam rising in slow, lazy curls, the water shimmering faintly under lanternlight filtered through carved stone. Luke sat half-submerged, back against the smooth edge, shoulders bare, skin still humming from the heat and from everything he was trying not to think about.
And then the quiet shifted.
Footsteps—soft, unhurried, familiar.
He didn't turn right away. He didn't need to.
The presence alone told him it was her.
Ilyrana stepped into the bathing chamber without ceremony, without hesitation. The door closed behind her with a muted sound that felt far louder than it should have. She paused only briefly, fingers resting against the stone wall as if grounding herself, before letting her cloak fall away. There was no urgency in the movement—only intent.
