Salviana woke first—or so she believed.
The bed was still ghost-warm beside her. The heavy, protective weight of Alaric's arm was gone, but his presence lingered in the indentation of the pillow and the faint, woodsy scent of his skin on the sheets.
Dawn crept through the heavy curtains in ribbons of pale gold, insistent and quiet, a silent summons to the day.
She slipped out from under the furs with the practiced grace of a shadow, as though a sudden sound might shatter the fragile peace of the morning. Barefoot, she crossed the chamber, the cold floorboards a sharp contrast to the heat of the bed.
When she entered her painting room, she didn't light a lamp. She didn't need to. Habit guided her. She swept her hair into a messy knot at the nape of her neck and pushed her sleeves past her elbows, baring her forearms to the cool air. The scent of linseed oil, turpentine, and old wood rose to meet her, settling her pulse instantly.
