Midnight draped the mountain festival grounds in velvet darkness, the kind that made even luxury feel secretive. Rafael and Eliana's tent—less "temporary shelter" and more "royal delusion made of canvas"—lay hushed beneath towering pines. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called, sounding far too judgmental for the hour, while the wind whispered through the trees like it knew things it wasn't sharing.
Rafael Vexley shifted beneath silk sheets, his body moving on instinct long before his mind caught up. One steel-grey eye cracked open as nature made its very unromantic demand. He reached out lazily, fingers searching for familiar warmth of his wife.
Nothing.
Cold silk greeted his palm.
That did it.
