On the sofa, sat Lysander.
He was not dressed for company.
His robe was deep crimson, silk, open to the waist. The fabric pooled around his hips, leaving his chest bare, the firelight catching the planes of his muscles, the dark hair that trailed down his stomach, the scars that marked his skin like constellations. His hair was down, loose, falling across his shoulders in dark waves. In one hand, he held a thin pipe, long and elegant, carved from dark wood, its bowl glowing with a small, orange ember.
Smoke curled from his lips, thin and silver, carrying the scent of something sweet and herbal. It drifted toward the ceiling, twisting in the firelight, and disappeared into the shadows.
He looked up when Kaelen opened the door.
Their eyes met.
Kaelen could not look away.
