The first rays of sunlight began to slip through the slanted wooden shutters of the cabin, slicing across the room in golden slivers that caught the edges of furniture and painted the soft linen sheets in molten light.
Dust particles floated lazily in the morning air, dancing in the glow like remnants of a forgotten dream. The storm had passed sometime during the night—replaced now by a stillness that clung to everything like dew.
Malvoria had been awake for a while.
Not because of the light.
Not even because her body was trained to wake at the first sign of dawn.
But because of her.
Elysia.
Clinging to her like a blanket might vanish at any moment. One arm was hooked loosely around Malvoria's waist, the other resting—no, gripping—her shoulder with the fierce intensity of someone not quite ready to let go.
And her face.
Gods, her face.
