Morning arrived gently.
Golden light filtered through the tall, arched windows of the guest chamber, spilling over the stone floor in soft strokes. The fire in the hearth had long gone out, but the warmth of the bedding still lingered as Luke stirred, blinking slowly into the stillness.
It was quiet. Peacefully so.
He didn't feel groggy. Or sore. Or caught in the in-between fog that usually followed deep, dreamless sleep. Despite having been unconscious for nearly a month, it seemed his internal clock hadn't lost its rhythm. It was early—he could tell from the way the light slanted through the window—but his body was already alert.
Ilyrana was still asleep beside him, curled slightly beneath the blankets, her breath slow and even. The silvery strands of her hair glowed faintly in the light, her face softened in the quiet serenity only true rest could bring. Luke smiled faintly. She'd stayed nearby again. He wasn't surprised.
Still, no reason to wake her.
