The library is silent, save for the occasional rustle of parchment and the sleepy purr of a cat nestled beside Silas’s boot. The morning light spills across the floor in golden shafts, catching on the floating dust, turning the world hazy and still. Silas sits curled into the high-backed window seat, a worn book cradled in her lap, though her eyes haven’t moved down the page in some time.
Outside, a raven cries once, distant. She turns a page anyway—more out of habit than interest. Her fingers trail the lines of ink like old scars. The smell of aged paper and lavender oil clings faintly to her robes. The fire crackles low, nearly out.
She tenses slightly—not visibly—but inside, the stillness fractures when she hears the telltale rhythm of footsteps outside the door. She doesn’t need to look up. She already knows who it is.
