Peduviel quieted slowly after the celebration.
The music faded first. The laughter followed, drifting down the warm stone corridors in scattered echoes as nobles retired to their chambers and servants began the long, careful work of restoring the palace to order. Outside, the night air carried the scent of flowers from the gardens below, stirred gently by a breeze rolling in from the eastern hills.
Inside Aya's chamber, the fire had burned low.
Amber light flickered softly across the room, casting long shadows against the carved walls and tall windows that looked out over the sleeping city.
Killan slept beside her.
He lay half on his side, one arm wrapped securely around her waist, his hand resting loosely against the curve of her hip as though even in sleep he had no intention of letting her drift far. His breathing was slow and steady, the deep, unguarded rhythm of someone whose body had finally allowed itself to rest.
Aya lay awake.
