The morning light cut through the heavy velvet drapes, striking Alistair's face and forcing him to squint. He felt a slight weight, something shifting against his chest. Frowning, he lifted the covers to find Asarmose's hand resting there. The Prince's mouth was slightly open, and a soft, rhythmic hum escaped his breath in the deep pull of sleep.
Alistair watched him for a heartbeat, his silver eyes unreadable. He gently moved the Prince's hand away, but the movement caused Asarmose to groan and roll to the opposite side, pulling the blankets with him in a silent protest.
