Then, steadying her breath, she turned and climbed the stairs.
Each step felt like a drumbeat.
She reached the small room where Alaric still lay curled under a thin blanket, his brow furrowed, his mouth parted. Even in sleep, there was strain in his jaw, a tightness around his eyes. He was fighting something even in dreams.
She sat beside him, brushing her hand against his temple. He stirred at last, eyes fluttering open,red-flecked and shadowed. He frowned.
"Good morning," she whispered, leaning down to press her lips to his brow.
He groaned. "You're up early."
"I made breakfast."
His eyes narrowed slightly. "You cooked?"
She smirked. "Don't sound so surprised."
She handed him the plate, her heart hammering.
He took it slowly, glancing down at the steaming food. For a moment he didn't move.
Then, he took a bite.
And paused. He frowned.
She watched him with the careful, silent attention of a priestess watching prophecy unfold.
