The castle halls—tall, echoing things of stone and storied shadow—seldom bore witness to laughter after nightfall.
But tonight, ah yes, tonight, the soft lilt of Kaela's giggles danced alongside the low rumble of Arkanos's chuckle, weaving like a bard's tune through the corridors. It was a rare and dangerous thing: joy in the heart of a man who wore conquest like a second skin. One might say love was a battlefield more treacherous than war… but I digress.
As they reached the massive double doors to Arkanos's private chambers, he slowly pushed the doors open.
With a creak that echoed like judgment in a cathedral, the doors parted.
Arkanos's eyes widened for a moment as he caught the sight of a certain someone.
Sephira.
Sitting upon his bed—his bed, mind you, not a chair, not the hearth, but the bed itself—draped in a simple white chemise, the kind of gown that clung modestly to her curves.
