The room was quiet in the way only shared spaces could be—still, enclosed, carrying the weight of things that had not been said out loud.
Soft light filtered through the narrow stone window, pale and muted, cutting the floor into long, thin shapes. A heat crystal glowed gently near the wall, its warmth steady and patient. The air smelled faintly of stone and clean linen.
Lilliane sat on the edge of the bed.
Her back was straight. Too straight.
Hands folded neatly in her lap, fingers interlaced as if arranged by habit rather than comfort. Her gaze rested forward, unfocused—not on the wall, not on the window, not on anything that existed in the room.
She looked like a doll someone had placed there and forgotten.
Sylthara leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed, ears swaying slowly on her head. She had been watching for a while now—long enough to recognize the absence of movement.
No shifting. No fidgeting. Barely any blinking.
