The afternoon light falls warm through the monastery windows, catching the dust in the air and the ink still drying on the letter you worked so hard to write. You'd trusted Sylvain with it. He was your brother, your safe person, the one who always had an answer for everything social and messy and human. But he's been standing there for a full minute now, not saying a word. The letter is still in his hand. His jaw is tight in a way you don't usually see on him - not the easy grin, not the practiced charm. Something else entirely. Ferdinand von Aegir has no idea any of this is happening. You're not sure Sylvain himself knows what's happening. But the silence is starting to feel very loud.