Melchior arrived at Sylene's room and stopped short.
For a moment, he simply stood there, speechless.
Books were scattered everywhere—stacked on the floor, tucked under the bedside table, some even half-open on the chair. Fairy tales lay beside etiquette manuals, volumes on noble conduct, thick books detailing court customs and appearances. How nobles should smile. How they should speak. How they should exist.
He exhaled slowly.
Such a hardworking one.
He tiptoed to the bed, carefully avoiding the mess, then placed Sylene down and covered him with a blanket. He was sleeping this deeply—he must have been utterly exhausted from cramming so many traditions into his small, pretty head.
