At The Norse Manor at Carles
The morning sun had long since climbed above the eastern peaks, its golden light spilling across the marble walls of the Norse Manor—but inside, silence still reigned. Turik's commanders lay in a drunken stupor, sprawled across fur pelts and discarded armor. Even Turik himself was tangled in the linens beside Briella, their breaths slow and heavy with the weight of last night's indulgence.
When Turik finally stirred, his bloodshot eyes blinked against the light filtering through the tall window—the same one that once watched over Odin and Freya's mornings in their bedroom. For a moment, he didn't recognize it. His temples throbbed, his mouth was dry, and the ghost of wine still clung to his tongue. Then awareness struck—too sharply.
"Damn it," he hissed, stumbling to his feet. His head spun, but he pushed past it.
Outside, in the banquet hall, his commanders were just beginning to rise, groggy and confused. They were supposed to have left at dawn.
