The moonlight crept through the narrow window, silvering the old wooden beams of their room on the tavern's second floor. The faint hum of the town below had long faded—only the occasional creak of a wagon or the distant bark of a stray dog broke the stillness. Luke sat by the window, elbows on the sill, his eyes fixed on nothing in particular. Ilyrana was seated on the edge of the bed behind him, her hair spilling like ink down her shoulders, her gaze quietly tracing the soft light that outlined his figure.
They hadn't spoken since they returned. Not because of anger, nor exhaustion—but because the quiet between them felt… appropriate. Heavy, yes, but not suffocating. There was something contemplative in it, something that made even the air hesitate before moving.
Finally, Ilyrana's voice broke through, soft but certain.
"You've been quiet all evening," she said. "What's troubling your mind, Luke?"
