The light that filtered through the high windows of the royal bedchamber was not the soft, amber glow of the previous month. It was the grey, uncompromising light of a winter morning that refused to hide the dust in the air or the cracks in the stone.
Elias woke first.
The wine had burned off, leaving behind a hollow ache in his temples and a terrifying, crystalline clarity in his mind. He lay perfectly still. He did not move his head. He did not reach out. He simply existed in the space.
Beside him, he could hear Cassian's breathing—the deep, steady rhythm of the Lion at rest. Cassian wasn't holding him, but he wasn't distant either; he was simply *there*, occupying the bed he had nearly abandoned.
