The morning light filtered through the heavy velvet drapes of our bedchamber, casting long, golden streaks across the tumbled sheets. Draven sat on the edge of the bed, slowly fastening the silver buckles of his heavy traveling boots. The warmth from the fireplace had faded, replaced by the crisp, cool air of early dawn, but the steady heat radiating from him remained anchored to the core resting beneath my ribs.
I leaned against the carved headboard, pulling the duvet over my shoulders as I watched him adjust his broad leather belt. His movements were slow, burdened by an unspoken weight.
"You're leaving already?" I asked quietly, my voice raspy with sleep.
Draven paused, his long fingers lingering on the iron clasp of his sword belt. He turned his head slightly, his mismatched eyes—silver and glowing emerald—sweeping over me with a quiet, intense focus.
