The air in the Hall of Mirrors was thick with dust and memories.
The open windows let in the morning breeze, carrying with it the scent of damp earth, ashes, and wildflowers.
I sat on the edge of the old dais where once audiences had been held. The stone was cold, rough beneath my fingers.
It didn’t matter.
Nothing did, except the drum in my chest, that one that sped up with every beat of expectation.
I had felt them coming before any door creaked open.
The pulse of our bond, the still-glowing embers of what we are.
Lean was the first to enter.
His eyes searched for me the way a wolf sniffs out shadows: alert, afraid I might not be real. His clothes were torn, his jaw bore a fresh cut.
And yet, he looked beautiful—untouched in his essence.
I stood.
When our eyes met, no words we
