Aiden woke to quiet.
Not the absence of sound, but the presence of it—soft breathing beside him, the distant toll of morning bells drifting through open windows, the whisper of silk curtains stirring in a breeze that smelled faintly of incense and high-altitude rain.
Calipso slept at his side.
The saintess lay on her back, one hand curled loosely near her collarbone, pale hair spilled across the pillow like moonlight given form.
Even in sleep, there was tension in her brow, as if the world refused to release her entirely. The capital had that effect on people. It demanded awareness, vigilance, allegiance—even in dreams.
Aiden watched her for a moment longer than necessary.
Not out of tenderness.
Out of calculation.
Calipso was not naïve. She was perceptive, dangerous in a quiet way. And she had chosen—consciously or not—to remain at his side. That alone made her important.
He rose without waking her.
