The morning sun flooded our bedchamber with a crisp, golden light, but when I rolled over and reached across the heavy velvet sheets, the space beside me was already cold. Draven had been up since before dawn, pulled directly from our bed into an emergency summit with the regional council to discuss whatever political disaster was brewing on the Northern front.
I stretched lazily, a small grin tugging at my lips as I recalled the sheer, terrifying drama of his early return the night before. But as I pulled on a warm wool dress of deep forest green and set about pinning my hair up, his quiet, ominous whisper from last night echoed back in my mind.
No more'? Absolutely not. The man survives abyssal dragons and political assassin guilds for breakfast. He is not allowed to dramatically drop ominous foreshadowing and then run off to a finance meeting.
