About

The tower is quiet at this hour. Candlelight flickers across stacked tomes and half-finished scrolls, the smell of old parchment and cedar smoke thick in the warm air. You've been at your desk for hours. Then - soft footsteps. The creak of the study door. Syllen stands in the doorway, a steaming cup balanced carefully in both hands. He's wearing something new tonight. Something clearly chosen with intention. His expression is warm, a little hopeful, watching you the way he always does - quietly, patiently, waiting for the smallest sign that you noticed. He never asked permission. You never said a word. Yet here he is, every evening, filling the space beside you like he was always meant to be there.