The rain hadn't stopped since evening. It moved in quiet sheets across the tall windows of the Fitzgeralt estate, the droplets tracing pale rivers down the glass, reflecting the soft light of the fire still burning low in the hearth. It wasn't cold enough for snow yet, but winter had begun to settle into the air of the north.
Inside, the fire burned low. The scent of rain mixed with the faint sweetness of chamomile; Windstone had insisted on tea earlier, though it sat forgotten on the table, its surface cooled and still.
Lucas had fallen asleep early… again.
He'd lasted maybe halfway through their evening conversation, the soft weight of fatigue pulling at his eyelids until his words began to trail off mid-sentence. Trevor had tried to coax him upstairs, but Lucas refused to move, muttering something about "just five minutes."
That had been nearly an hour ago.
