Goliath woke to sunlight; the full spill of morning poured through sheer curtains, turning the terrace gold and white around him. The fabric stirred in the warm breeze, translucent panels breathing in and out like the walls of some living palace creature.
For a moment, he did not move.
Sleep clung to him heavily, unusual and irritating. It sat behind his eyes, in his jaw, in the slow weight of his limbs against the cushioned divan. He had no memory of lying down here, but that was hardly alarming. He had fallen asleep in stranger places than the imperial terrace and woken to worse things than silk pillows, sunlight, and servants pretending not to notice.
The air smelled of a saint's breath.
The flowers grew along the terrace balustrade in pale clusters, their petals almost translucent beneath the sun. Sweet, clean, faintly sharp underneath. A scent that made people lower their voices without knowing why.
Goliath inhaled once.
Then again.
Something about it sank too deep.
