The grey morning light crept through the tower window slowly, like it was unsure whether it was welcome. It touched the stone walls and the dying embers of the fire and finally reached the bed where two men lay in the kind of silence that only exists between people who have been through something together that changed them both permanently.
Alaric's eyes snapped open the moment the light shifted. He was trained that way, wired deep in his bones to wake at the smallest change in the world around him. His hand moved toward the dagger under the pillow before his mind had fully caught up with his body.
Then he felt the warmth beside him and his hand stilled.
He looked down.
Silas was awake. Already watching him with eyes that carried a quiet, hidden fire, the kind that does not flicker or waver but burns low and steady and means business. He had not just woken up.
