The nobleman's estate slumbered under the gray veil of dawn, its heavy velvet curtains drawn tight, trapping the fading warmth of the hearth within.
In the master chamber, the air hung thick with the lingering scent of incense—sandalwood and myrrh, dulled but stubborn, weaving through the stillness.
Lord Renval stirred against silk sheets, one arm curled around the soft curve of his wife's waist, the other draped over the slighter form of his concubine.
Their breathing was a quiet symphony, deep and sated, their bodies pressed close in the languor of sleep.
The only sounds were the faint rustle of curtains swaying in a stray breeze and the low, dying crackle of embers in the hearth.
Then—
A touch.
Not a hand, not anything human—just the sensation of being watched.
A cool glide brushed his cheek, weightless, leaving no warmth, only a whisper of presence that sent a shiver down his spine.
