In the pitch-black room, there was no light. Nothing but the void that was darkness.
Yet from the farthest corner, a soft, ghostly glow pulsed—a faint lump of lavender light hovering in the dark like a dying star.
It was hair. Zephyr's hair.
The glowing strands shimmered faintly with hues of silver, and just beneath them, two lavender orbs rippled with concentric circles, reacting to every subtle movement of his body. Every tilt of his head left behind twin trails of spectral light—like color given weight, like lavender color given substance.
His hand moved in a blur across the parchment before him, fingers deftly guiding the sealing brush with precision. The brushstroke was smooth, confident, and alive. A soft sheen of pale lavender Aether coated his hand, and if one looked closely, they'd see it—thin, silken threads of energy flowing from his fingertips, through the brush, and into the symbols.
