The sun had already reached its zenith, slowly sliding toward the west. Golden rays pierced through the inn's windows, scattering fractured light across the wooden floor.
Seraphina was still asleep. Her long white hair spilled across Arzael's chest like a silk blanket, covering almost her entire petite frame. Her breathing was steady, lips slightly parted as her shoulders rose and fell gently. Even in her sleep, she unconsciously clung, as if unwilling to part from the warmth she had sought throughout the night.
Arzael remained still. His blood-red eyes half-closed, staring at the ceiling with a calm that only he could muster. Though his mind was heavy with fatigue, he let her rest. The rhythm of Seraphina's breathing drew him into a rare, fleeting peace.
But there was someone impatient.
