Aya woke slowly, the way one did after too little sleep and too much thought. For a moment, she did not move. The ceiling above her was unfamiliar - darker wood beams, broader, less adorned than those in her own chambers. The faint scent of oiled leather and steel lingered in the air, not the softer perfumes her maids favored.
Her brow furrowed.
She pushed herself up slightly, the covers whispering around her, and then the realization settled in with quiet, undeniable clarity.
This was not her bed.
She turned her head.
Killan sat near the edge of the mattress, one forearm braced loosely against his knee, posture relaxed in a way that suggested deliberate stillness rather than true rest. Morning light spilled through the open window behind him, catching along the edges of his hair and the line of his jaw. He looked as though he had been awake for some time.
He met her gaze without surprise.
