When Eiravyne stirred, the world felt softer, hushed. The sky above was deep indigo, stars scattered like silver dust.
The garden was bathed in the gentle glow of moonlight and flickering lanterns, casting long, quiet shadows.
She blinked, slowly realizing her head rested against something solid and warm.
Urag.
He was sitting on the bench, motionless except for the slow rise and fall of his chest.
Her body was curled in his lap, his cloak draped over her like a blanket.
One of his arms was wrapped around her protectively, the other resting loosely at his side, fingers still curled slightly—as if even in stillness, he was holding on to something.
She heard the distant hum of music—the muffled rhythm of laughter, clinking glasses, heels tapping polished floors. The ball was still going.
Eiravyne sat up abruptly, the memories of her confession and the warmth of his spell crashing back like a wave.
