Morning came slow, slipping into the royal bedchamber like a shy servant afraid to wake its masters. First was the hush ― a hush so soft it felt woven from the velvet drapes themselves. Then a thread of dawn crept through the narrow gap where Monkey had left the curtains just ajar. That light kissed the edge of a gilded table, glinted off the discarded crown, and wandered across a rumpled sea of pillows until it climbed the slope of Mikhailis's tangled hair.
He surfaced from sleep by degrees. One eyelid fluttered, confused by the intrusion of pale gold. His other eye stayed buried in a cushion that smelled faintly of cocoa and cedar. A yawn threatened, but before it took him he froze, noticing warmth pressed against his ribs.
Elowen.
