The key—an ornate silver relic with a kidney-shaped bow—slid from Heimdal's palm into the ancient lock. It turned with a reluctant click, followed by the slow groan of the heavy oak door swinging inward.
The room, though not used, was kept clean and neat. A breath of fresh air drifted past him, tinged faintly with rose oil, lavender, and something older—like the fading scent of parchment and silken robes tucked away for too long.
Yes, he had instructed the maids not to touch Astrid's clothes.
He stepped inside, lit the torches by the door, and the golden glow flooded the chamber. The room was frozen in time. It looked the same since the last time he was here, a year ago. He would spend the night on her bed every year on the day he confessed his love to her, and she confessed back.
