The night guard outside startles at the sound of hinges shifting. His hand goes to his blade, but I raise my own, palm up, a ghost of a smile.
“Can’t sleep,” I say softly, half jest, half confession.
The library looms in darkness. Even with the moon’s faint reach, the air feels thick, the scent of parchment and dust heavy as breath. I move through the dark from memory—each step deliberate, measured, inevitable.
And the closer I come to the barred gates, the quieter the world becomes.
It doesn’t need to call to me anymore. It knows I will come.
I stop before the door.
“What are you doing?” I whisper into the stillness.
The air stirs. A warmth brushes my cheek—not menacing, not spectral, but intimate. It feels like sunlight filtered through leaves, the same peace I once found beside the stream.
No ghosts wait here.
Only what is meant to be found.
My hand reaches for the lock. Shimmering golden light spills across my fingers.
This is no enchantment—merelythe breaking of day.
Dawn.
I haven’t realized the hour.
I retrace my steps; the corridors no longer cloaked in shadow but painted in that gentle, forgiving light that makes even stone seem kind. The guards at either end straighten when they see me, their relief subtle but unmistakable. One even steps forward, easing the heavy door to my chamber open so it doesn’t creak in protest.
The air inside is cool, touched by the pale shimmer of morning. I slip from my robe and slide beneath the sheets. The scent of him—cedar, smoke, and warmth—wraps around me before his arm does.
He stirs, half-asleep, his hand tracing the edge of my shift.
“I got cold,” I whisper.
“We can’t have that now, can we?” His voice is a low rumble, roughened by sleep but rich with amusement. He draws me close, tucking me against him until our breaths fall into rhythm.
I rest my head on his chest, letting his heartbeat drown the turmoil in my own. He mistakes the tension that lingers within me for a shiver, as his hand smooths slow, tender circles across my back.
“Do you know what this morning means?” he murmurs, his lips brushing my hair.
I lift my head slightly, meeting his sleepy grin. “That you slept far later than usual?”
“That I no longer care what anyone thinks,” he says, laughter humming through his chest. “The court can whisper all they like, Mira. Let them. I’ve never known peace like this—not in a hundred years.”
He presses another kiss to my forehead, softer this time, his thumb tracing the corner of my jaw as if memorizing it. “You’ve brought light into this place,” he says simply. “Into me.”
His words should ease the weight pressing on my heart. Instead, they deepen it—because joy, too, can ache.
I close my eyes, let myself melt against him, and try to believe that the warmth I feel now can be enough to silence whatever calls to me in the dark.
He stays with me.
Even as the songbirds carry on their tune, as morning light fills the room, he stays.
When Soria enters, shefreezes mid-stride.
“Oh gods, Vale,” she stammers, spinning halfway around and shielding her eyes. “I wasn’t expecting?—”
