The chamber smelled faintly of crushed herbs and smoke, a lingering trace of the healers who had passed through earlier. The fire in the brazier had been stoked low, only embers glowing red in the iron belly, yet the air was thick and close, the kind of warmth that pressed skin to skin rather than drifting around it.
Ryon lay half-propped against a mound of furs, his bandaged side still aching with every shift of breath. But what filled his chest tonight wasn't pain — it was the unbearable weight of closeness.
Lyria Zareth sat beside him, her silver-black hair cascading over one shoulder, catching what little light flickered. She was quiet, almost too quiet, watching him with those wide eyes that had once called him "brother," and now held something rawer, something she dared not name yet could not bury.
Her hand brushed his, tentative, lingering. "You shouldn't be moving yet," she whispered. "The wound hasn't sealed."
