"Is that enough?" he asked.
"More," she whispered, breathless with the thrill buzzing through her.
He chuckled but obliged, lighting every wick in sight until the room was awash in golden warmth. Then, remembering, he fetched the jar of fireflies and set it carefully on the window ledge. Their soft, greenish light shimmered beside the candles, casting a surreal glow that made the whole space feel enchanted.
Salviana wasted no time. She gathered her brushes with shaking hands, swept open a fresh canvas, and dipped into her paints. Her movements were fevered, driven, her body bending and swaying with each stroke.
Alaric leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching her. His eyes softened at the sight—his divine wife bathed in firefly light and candle flame, every line of her body alive with purpose. He said nothing, only shifted a candle closer when her hand drifted into shadow, only blew softly to keep smoke from blurring her strokes.
