The door clicked shut behind Aristarkh with a soft, final sound that seemed to seal the rest of the world outside.
Golden morning light streamed through the tall arched windows of Rosaline's private quarters, painting the stone walls in warm honey tones and turning the air itself into something alive and faintly shimmering. The room smelled of her, warm spices, faint wildflowers, and the subtle musk of a woman who had just risen from her bed. It wrapped around him like an invisible caress.
Rosaline stood only a few paces away, and the sight of her hit him like a slow, heavy wave.
