First light barely kissed the frost-rimmed windows of their chambers. Elyra stirred, the silken sheets cool against her skin. She was alone in their vast bed. A hollow ache settled in her chest. She had meant to stay awake, to hold Auren, to offer some comfort in the raw aftermath of the night. But exhaustion, heavy and merciless, had claimed her.
She found him by the window. Still in his festival attire, a rumpled mess of crimson and black velvet. His shoulders, usually so broad and proud, were slumped. He sat on the stone bench, staring out at the grey, ash-dusted dawn, his face illuminated by the weak, nascent light. His eyes, even from across the room, looked swollen, bruised from weeping.
Elyra approached him carefully, her bare feet silent on the cold stone. She knelt beside him, wrapping her arms around his waist, resting her head against his back. He was stiff, rigid with unshed grief.
"Auren," she whispered, her voice thick with apology. "I'm so sorry. I fell asleep."
