The night was thick with silence, like fog pressing against the windowpanes. Through the cracked-open window came faint sounds from the city beyond the capital — the clatter of hooves, the long yawns of guards, the creak of distant gates being shut.
Veynessa sat at a simple wooden desk in the corner of the rented room, leaning on her elbow, her gaze fixed on the sleeping form of Sylphia.
She loved that child. Sylphia was smart — maybe too smart for her age. But living in such luxury had clearly left a mark on her. It had given her a false idea that the world was inherently warm, protective, and comfortable. Her reaction to awakening a mediocre root proved it: instead of fighting to overcome it, instead of throwing herself into training or seeking a path to evolve her root, she simply gave up. She sank into apathy, as if her fate was already sealed.
