The fire had burned down to embers, and the room was growing cold despite the warmth of their bodies pressing together on the window seat. The moon had set, and the only light came from the dying glow of the hearth and the first pale hints of dawn creeping through the window, painting the stone walls in shades of silver and pearl. Kaelen's arm was still around Rosalind's shoulders, her head still on his chest, rising and falling with each slow, steady breath.
They had been sitting like this for hours talking, weeping, and holding each other. The full confession had been spoken, the grief shared, the wounds had been opened and cleaned. There were no more secrets between them, no more walls, no more distance. But there was still one question lingering in the silence, one doubt that Kaelen could not shake.
