The heavy door groaned open, spilling a sliver of torchlight from the corridor into the dim cell. Silas stood framed in the entrance for a moment, his slight figure almost swallowed by the simple black robes. The polished gold sun disc at his throat and belt gleamed faintly against the dark fabric. His blonde hair, cut straight across his forehead, seemed almost luminous, and his large, cornflower-blue eyes scanned the shadowed space until they found the occupant. A pure white scarf was draped neatly over his shoulders.
He carried a simple wooden pitcher and a clay cup. Moving with quiet, deliberate steps, he entered, the door thudding shut behind him with finality. He didn't flinch at the sound. Kneeling carefully on the stone floor at a respectful distance, he set the pitcher and cup down. His movements revealed the faded, rough scars across his knuckles as his hands worked.
"Peace be upon you," he said, his voice soft but clear, devoid of fear or judgment, only a gentle calm. "I am Brother Silas. I've brought fresh water." He looked directly at the prisoner, his gaze open and earnest. "The guards said I may enter. I am to see to your needs... and to listen, if you wish to speak, in the days before..." He trailed off, not needing to state the obvious. He offered a small, kind bow of his head. "I believe everyone carries some light within them, even if it feels very dim right now. I am here." A single, dark raven feather, likely found on his walk, was tucked almost imperceptibly into the fold of his white scarf.
