Eira's pov
The west tower always felt colder than the rest of the compound.
Maybe it was the stone. Maybe it was the silence. Maybe it was the ghosts of old commanders who had stood in this same place, making choices that fractured empires. Or maybe it was just him.
Malrik.
He stood by the window with the moon slashing across his face like a blade. Half in shadow. Half illuminated. A man carved from war and whispers.
I should've turned around. I knew I should've turned around.
But I didn't.
The corridor behind me was empty. My boots didn't make a sound on the stone floor. My fingers curled at my sides as I stepped into the room.
He didn't flinch. Didn't turn. Just poured two glasses from a decanter like he'd been waiting.
Like he knew.
"You came," Malrik said quietly, his voice smooth as silk over broken glass.
"I didn't come for you," I snapped.
He finally turned, offering one of the glasses.
I didn't take it.
"I have questions," I said instead.
