When Elysia opened her eyes, the first thing she noticed was the silence.
The second was the empty space beside her.
The sheets were cool where Malvoria's body had been, a faint indent still marking the spot where she'd lain—tall, strong, familiar.
The scent of her lingered in the pillows.
It was the first morning in almost a month that Elysia had woken up without Malvoria's arm draped over her waist or her breath slow and steady beside her.
She usually waited, even on early-duty mornings, long enough to press a kiss to her temple, whisper something sardonic or sweet before vanishing into the duties of command.
But not today.
She'd returned late last night—later than usual—and she'd looked… off.
There hadn't been any blood, no visible wounds, but her eyes had been distant. Shadowed. She'd undressed quietly, joined Elysia in bed without a word, and held her tightly, as though the silence itself was some kind of shield.
Elysia hadn't pressed.
She'd learned not to.
