Dawn came quietly to Peduviel.
The tall windows of Aya's chamber had begun to fill with soft gold light, the first warmth of morning slipping through the pale curtains and stretching across the stone floor. The fire in the hearth had long since burned down to embers, its glow faint but steady in the dim room.
Killan woke slowly.
Not to alarm, or the distant call of horns as he often had during war, but to warmth.
It took him a moment to understand why.
His arms were wrapped around someone.
Aya.
Memory returned in fragments - the quiet of the chamber, the firelight, the moment restraint had finally given way to something far simpler and far more human.
He lay still.
Aya was pressed close against him, her back tucked against his chest, one of his arms resting securely around her waist while the other lay loosely draped across her. At some point in the night she had shifted closer, drawn instinctively toward the warmth beside her.
She rarely slept deeply.
