Twilight bled through the high windows in thin crimson ribbons.
The hall had been rearranged while they slept. Low braziers ringed a raised obsidian dais at the center. No grand altar tonight—just a simple velvet pallet wide enough for one body, a small table holding an obsidian vial of glowing silver-black ink and a fine silver needle that caught the firelight like a blade.
The rest of the hall stayed dim. Shadows clung to the walls. The air carried the faint smell of cooled wax and black roses brought in from the gardens.
Aiden entered barefoot, shirtless, black trousers slung low on his hips. He carried nothing else. He needed nothing else.
