Inside a dimly lit room, illuminated by a dusty chandelier that cast a warm golden glow, the atmosphere felt cozy yet laden with meaning. The walls were made of aged, weathered stone, adorned with a few faded paintings depicting epic battles from eras past. In one corner, a stone fireplace crackled softly, adding warmth to the cool room.
In the center of the room, Andrey sat on the edge of an old but sturdy leather sofa. His chest was still bare, faint scars visible—pink lines where the healing potion and his natural regeneration had done their work. His torn, bloodied shirt lay discarded beside him, leaving him in just his dark trousers. His cracked glasses rested on the side table, useless now. Without them, his gaze seemed sharper, more exposed.
Morgana was pressed close to his side, her arm linked through his, her head resting on his shoulder in a gesture that was both possessive and protective. Her red eyes were fixed on Luna, watchful yet trusting.
