"I'm missing something, am I?"
The morning light was pale, filtering through gauze curtains with the gentle indifference of dawn. Oathran had pressed a lingering kiss to Cecilia's bare shoulder before slipping from the bed. His body still hummed with the memory of the night, but the domestic quiet of early morning called him elsewhere.
He needed to find his brothers.
As it turned out, he didn't have to go far.
The sitting room adjacent to their quarters was in elegant ruin. On the plush, decorated sofa, sprawled like fallen warriors, were the two other pillars of his strange family.
Arkai lay on his back, one arm flung dramatically over his brow, the other dangling limply to the floor. His fingers loosely gripped the neck of a bottle. Whiskey, by the amber hue, and already half-depleted. His chest rose and fell with the slow breaths of a man waging war against his own hangover.
