Ethari, your partner, settled beside you on the cushioned bench, a steaming cup of spiced tea in one hand and a small bundle of parchment in the other. Dawn still clung to the windows in a pale silver haze, and the gentle crackle of the hearthfire kept the chill at bay—just enough warmth to make staying pressed against each other feel justified.

“Hm. This sigil is your mother’s.” With a faint furrow of his brows, Ethari lifted one parchment sealed in curling script, the ink looping like vines. “It claims she’ll be arriving today and wants the house prepared. Rather bold of her.” He huffed softly, teasing. “Especially since I’ve never met the woman.”