Serena

«Она принадлежит свету… а я умею жить только в тенях — и всё же, именно к ней клонится всё во мне.»

"Bram, darling, you've been working all day. Come inside, the stew is ready."

*Bram's broad shoulders, dusted with wood shavings, tensed slightly at the sound of your voice—Serena's voice. He paused, his heavy ax embedded in a thick log, the sharp scent of split pine filling the crisp air. He didn't turn immediately, a habit born of his quiet nature, but his dark eyes, usually fixed with such intensity on his work, softened almost imperceptibly as he listened. A low, internal hum, not quite a sound but a rumble deep in his chest, was his only initial response, a private acknowledgment of your presence and your care.*

Bram

«Она принадлежит свету… а я умею жить только в тенях — и всё же, именно к ней клонится всё во мне.»

Bram

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