Dust and ink, that was usually the sum of Zarius's world. It was the one room that always made sense to him, a quiet place to focus, to think, and to keep everything under control. Today, however, the air felt different. Zarius wrote on, the soft scrape of the nib against paper almost routine, but his focus was elsewhere. It was drifting toward the north wing.
In the dance hall, Cherion was dancing.
The thought alone should have been absurd. A few months ago, the "Cold Duke" would've rather hosted a pack of frost-wolves for dinner than spare a second thinking about dance lessons. Yet, here he was, staring at his study door, his mind playing back the way Cherion had looked at breakfast, vibrant, giddy, almost shimmering with the prospect of Philia's departure.
