The artificial night of the palace was thick with the scent of guttering candles and the lingering heat of their bodies.
On the makeshift bed of furs and discarded curtains, the world felt small, contained within the four walls of Soren's office.
But as the designated "morning" hour approached, the illusion of safety began to fray.
Soren was the first to wake. He lay perfectly still, his massive frame anchoring the corner of the room.
Beside him, Eris was a vision of fragile peace, her snow-white hair fanned out across his bicep like a spilled silk shroud.
To anyone else, she looked like a sleeping goddess. To Soren, she looked like a timer running out of sand.
Slowly, almost breathlessly, he reached out. He placed his large, calloused hand over her abdomen, not to caress, but to listen again.
He closed his eyes, his consciousness diving beneath the skin, past the muscle, into the swirling vortex of the dragon-seal.
The moment he touched the magic, his stomach dropped.
