The golden hues of evening spilled gently across the room, stretching through the tall windows and brushing the marble floor with fading warmth. Vyan sat hunched over a cluttered table, rifling through ancient spellbooks, his fingers leaving smudges of ink and dust on the delicate pages.
There was a knock at the door.
"Come in," Vyan said, without looking up.
Clyde stepped inside quietly, boots padding against the floor with uncharacteristic softness. His eyes immediately fell on Vyan's face, on the way his wine-red eyes flicked with a strange, quiet fire that hadn't been there in days. For over a week, Clyde had watched him drift through the manor like a broken doll, too silent or too loud—there was no in between.
But now, something had shifted.
There was life again.
And that unsettled him.
When a storming madman suddenly becomes his previous calm, calculating self, it was definitely concerning.
