He stood there in silence, his gaze fixed on his mother's portrait, lost in a flood of memory and emotion. The room—her sanctuary—wrapped around him like a forgotten lullaby. It smelled faintly of lavender and rose, and every corner whispered echoes of his childhood: the soft rustle of her dress, the warmth of her touch, the beautiful voice that gently hummed lullabies.
He hadn't stepped foot in this boudoir in two months. Not since that night. He'd always thought his sneaking in had gone unnoticed, but now he knew—his father had known all along.
King Heimdal stood by the vanity, his broad frame silhouetted against the golden candlelight. The flames danced on the polished marble, casting trembling shadows that made the portrait of Astrid appear almost alive. Her painted eyes—soft, intelligent, haunting—gazed down at them both.
