The candlelight bled across the chamber, soft and trembling, painting the walls in golden waves that swayed like living breath. Outside, faint echoes of movement stirred—a muffled shout, a bootstep in the courtyard, the murmur of soldiers resettling their stations. But here, within the heavy hush of stone and velvet, Ryon felt the world had narrowed to a single heartbeat, and it beat against him through the warmth of the woman pressed close.
Lyria's head rested against his chest, her dark hair cascading like spilled night across his skin. He felt her breaths, shallow and uneven, as though even she was afraid to disturb the fragile balance of this moment. Her fingers had traced patterns along his collarbone for what felt like hours, never asking for more, never pulling away. Just existing—anchored to him, clinging, as though she knew the world would soon demand she let go.
"You hear it too," she whispered, her voice as light as the flicker of the flames.
