The moonlight spilled silver across the chamber, filtering in through the high-arched windows of the stone keep. The wind outside whispered with the salt of the sea, and the crackling hearth inside was the only sound filling the silence—until the door creaked open.
Freja stepped in quietly, her figure tall and wrapped in a dark velvet cloak still damp from the skies. Her silver-streaked hair fell loose, brushed by the night breeze, and her golden eyes scanned the chamber where Aragon sat in solitude.
He had taken off his armor, but the weight of war had not left his shoulders. His tunic was half-unlaced, soaked with sweat and blood—some his own, some not. He had not noticed her enter at first, but when he did, he didn't rise.
Instead, he looked at her with tired eyes. "I knew you'd come."
"I always do," she said, her voice like steel softened by time. She walked forward, her boots echoing on the stone floor, then paused when she reached him. "You shouldn't be alone tonight."
