"The night is young for those who never sleep," Elara replied, moving toward him with a fluid, predatory grace. She stopped inches away, the scent of crushed roses and cold rain clinging to her.

Julian stood, his movements mirroring hers—precise and effortless. He reached out, his cool fingers tracing the line of her jaw before tilting her head back. In the dim light, her eyes shimmered with an ancient hunger that mirrored his own. There was no need for words between them; the shared weight of centuries had stripped away the necessity of trivial conversation.