The wooden door creaked as Xavier stepped into the warm glow of the packhouse.
He hadn't known what he'd find, only that he had to see her.
The scent hit him first. Not her perfume—Adrianna was never the type—but the faint scent of dried herbs, soap, and something earthy. The kind of scent you remember after someone's gone. A scent you mourn.
He never thought he'd smell it again.
There she was, sitting quietly by the hearth, her figure wrapped in a plain wool shawl, legs folded beneath her, the flicker of firelight dancing in her eyes. Her hair was longer than he remembered, darker too. She was thinner, paler—but no less striking.
When she looked up and saw him, her eyes widened, just barely.
"Xavier."
His name on her lips felt like a blade across his skin. He hadn't heard her voice in months, not like this—not without pain or screams or blood.
"I—" He stepped forward, suddenly unsure of his body, of what he was allowed to do. "You're alive."
