The soft light of the waning afternoon filtered through the high windows, scattering faint gold across the tables of the library. The air was still, heavy with the scent of old parchment and candle wax. Amara sat across from Severin, who had found a blank sheet of parchment and a simple charcoal stick nothing else.
Without a word, he began to draw.
Amara leaned slightly forward, curious. There was no hesitation in his hand; every stroke flowed like it remembered its place before touching the page. He did not measure nor sketch lightly he knew where each line should fall, as though he was tracing an image burned deep into his mind.
At first, the faint outlines formed the soft curve of a woman's face. Her eyes, delicate yet piercing, seemed to come alive as the drawing grew. Amara could hear only the quiet sound of charcoal against paper, rhythmic and calm, almost like breathing.
