The rain had not stopped since they returned from the sanctuary.
Soft silver streams slid endlessly across the towering palace windows while distant thunder rolled quietly above the sleeping imperial capital, the storm outside wrapping the empire beneath darkness and cold while within the western chambers another kind of storm unfolded slowly beside warm firelight and exhausted hearts.
Silvain remained near the hearth in silence.
Not because calm existed within him.
Because too much emotion did.
The lingering effects of the incense still moved restlessly beneath his restraint, warmth and tension threading through his body in ways that made every breath feel heavier than it should have, yet even that discomfort paled beside the quiet devastation left behind by memory.
The sanctuary.
The refuge.
The abduction.
The poison.
The girl beneath winter lanternlight carrying too many books for her small arms.
And now—
Isolde.
Everything somehow circled back toward her.
