Azazeal woke up with a start, the space beside him felt so achingly empty that it made an annoyed growl leave his lips.
The soft cold body he had become so used to -her cold body -was gone.
For most of his life, he had hated the heat of other people's bodies. He ran a high temperature himself, an internal flame that even the chill of the coldest winters couldn't calm. It was why he had always liked sleeping alone.
Until her.
His habit of sleeping alone had shattered during the nights they spent traveling. Her small, icy skin against his, lulling him as no cool wind had ever done. Now, she was gone and her absence was an ache he couldn't speak of or hide.
Azazeal crept silently from his bed, looking around the chambers—his chambers.
Not just any old room but the room where the High King sleeps. The walls were hewn with dark obsidian, cold and glimmering in the dim glow of the single lantern he had lit.
