Aftermath

The house was quiet again. Too quiet.

Harven groaned, sitting up with a grimace as the pounding in his head reminded him just how many ales he'd slammed down the night before. He blinked against the light creeping in through the cracks in the shutters.

"Mirielle?" he croaked.

No answer.

He rubbed his face and stood slowly, wobbling on unsteady legs. His clothes were a mess, the table still bore the faint imprint of a wild night—though he remembered nothing but drinking, shouting, and... passing out. Classic.

He shuffled into the hallway, the air thick with a scent he couldn't quite place—sweaty, sweet, musky. It clung to the walls like a secret.

Then he heard it: the soft tap tap of bare feet on the wooden floor.

Mirielle rounded the corner.