Leonhardt stood in front of the frozen mirror in his room, Sylvie's body curled in the sheets, her pale skin kissed with violet light from the crystal lanterns embedded in the walls.
She barely stirred beneath the silk covers, one pale thigh slipping free, the rest of her buried in warmth. Her breath fogged the sheets near her lips, every exhale a soft mist.
The marks on her hips, her thighs, and the kiss marks laced the curve of her collarbone—still fresh. His handprints. A dozen delicate fingerprints from when she clung to him like he might melt and disappear.
A girl made of winter, held tightly until even ice burned.
Leonhardt adjusted the cuffs of his dark coat, the mirror showing the faint trails of steam rising from his bare chest as he shrugged the fabric into place.
He didn't look at Sylvie.
He didn't need to.
The smell of her was still on his tongue.
Outside the mirror, a ripple of mana buzzed against the warded door—a soft, three-part signal. Not urgent.
