Ingrid stood frozen on the balcony, her heart pounding in her chest as she gazed at the man below.
"Why is he here?" Ingrid whispered to herself, her voice barely audible over the soft rustle of the night breeze.
She couldn't be mistaken.
The distinctive features she remembered so well were unmistakable—the half-shaved silver hair tied at the top, the towering stature that is tall even for Ásjáns, and the black tattoo that ran down from his face to his neck in attempt to hide his scars.
Instinctively, her hand reached out for the balcony door, seeking refuge inside the safety of her chambers.
But as if sensing her presence, the man glanced up, his gaze meeting hers from the distance.
Ingrid's breath caught in her throat. Though she couldn't discern his expression from afar, her memories painted a vivid picture of the emotions that once danced across his face.
Shivers ran down Ingrid's spine, but she forced herself to remain composed.
