When Circe fell asleep that night, she did so wrapped securely in Ragnar's strong arms, his steady breathing warm against her hair. She did not know how long she slept, nor when the world around her began to shift, but when she opened her eyes, it was not the familiar silk-draped walls of her bedchamber that greeted her. Instead, she found herself surrounded by the rough, timeworn stone of the cave that she often dreamt of.
The air was cool and damp, heavy with the smell of wet rock. Pale blue light shimmered faintly against the walls, cast by the cerulean pool that lay at the cavern's heart. She was lying in the same place she always did, upon the large jutting rock that faced the water.
Circe pushed herself upright and brushed the dust from her clothes, small grains of sand falling away at her touch. Her gaze swept the cave in search of Dena, but there was no sign of her.
Perhaps she would have to go looking.
