The room was quiet.
The faint flickering glow of the oil lamp cast soft shadows against the walls, and I lay curled beneath a blanket with Osric, half-asleep, half-awake, like a slightly microwaved croissant—soft in the middle, crisp at the edges, and not entirely sure what dimension I existed in.
My head was warm. My eyes were heavy. Brain... buffering...
Then—footsteps. Slow, deliberate, steady. They entered the room with a kind of quiet confidence, and even in my sleepy haze, I could tell—this wasn't a servant or a nursemaid. It was someone who didn't need to rush.
"...Is she asleep?"
That voice. I knew it.
I blinked slowly, lashes fluttering like the wings of a tired bird trying to fight gravity. The world swam back into shape through the syrupy haze of half-sleep, and I saw him.
"Theon..." I mumbled, still floating somewhere between dreams and reality.
