Caedrion lay in bed as the summer sun crept higher.
The warmth of Aelindria's embrace pressed against him, soft and steady, a living shield against the cool morning breeze.
For a fleeting moment he allowed himself to linger, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face.
How long can days like this last?
The thought came unbidden, heavy.
Ignarion's fleets bled at sea, their prestige crumbling under the weight of other Magi Houses whispering for blood.
And in Dawnhaven, his army swelled: infantry drilled, cavalry hardened, artillery forged. All the while his mind ran like the gears of his machines.
Logistics, supply lines, pioneers, engineers. Bridges, trenches, wagons, powder.
A flick on the forehead snapped him from calculation. Aelindria's eyes were open, sparkling with mischief.
Before he could scoff, she kissed him, slow and deliberate, her whisper brushing his ear.
