The shadows in the corner of the room didn't just sit there; they seemed to breathe, heavy and saturated with the scent of expensive sandalwood and the ghostly, herbal tail-end of chamomile. It was a thick sort of silence. The kind that feels like velvet pressing against your eardrums. Deep within the plush confines of his private quarters, Darien stirred.
For the first time in what felt like a godforsaken century, his mind wasn't a battlefield. The "white-masked" specter, that hollow-eyed nightmare that had been clawing at his subconscious for days, was gone. Evaporated. In its place was a heavy, tranquil lethargy. He felt... anchored.
He shifted, the silk sheets whispering against his skin, and that's when he felt the weight. Not a heavy one, but a presence.
Amara was still there.
