The pale, thin light of a Nevareth morning filtered through the heavy velvet curtains, painting long, slate-colored streaks across the imperial bed.
It was the kind of light that didn't warm so much as it revealed, the fine dust dancing in the air, the tangled sheets, and the sudden, jarring reality of another person occupying the space.
They woke at the same time.
There was the gradual stirring, the soft transition from dreams to wakefulness and the specific, synchronized awareness of two rulers who had spent a lifetime listening for the world to break.
The first few minutes were quiet. Eris didn't move, and neither did Soren.
They simply lay there in the grey dawn, the weight of each other's presence acting as a physical anchor.
It was the kind of silence that didn't need to be filled with explanations or apologies. It was enough, for a heartbeat, to simply exist in a room that wasn't a battlefield or a void.
But mornings in the capital were not designed for lingering.
