The morning broke soft.
No fanfare. No rupture. Just light—gentle, golden, stitched through the mist like thread through silk.
The castle behind them faded into shadow.
The road ahead shimmered.
And the group—five souls stitched together by memory, magic, and barbecue—walked quietly into the day.
Tieran led.
His cloak fluttered in the breeze, his seal pulsing low. He had already swallowed twelve poison suppression pills from Illan's satchel. His breath was steady. His posture sharp. But his eyes—shadowed.
He didn't fear suffering.
He had lived beside it.
But Ivy—
She walked just behind him, her fingers twitching, her seal flickering like a candle in wind.
She felt everything.
And she wasn't built for pain.
They passed the ghost city.
Its towers loomed like broken teeth.
Its streets whispered.
But the realm didn't pull them in.
Not this time.
And then—
The forest.
It wasn't dark.
Not truly.
It was deep.
The trees were tall, stitched from black bark and silver leaves. The ground was soft—moss and memory. The air shimmered with floating spores, glowing faintly like fireflies. And the sun—
The sun was atrose.
Not pink.
Not gold.
Just… atrose.
A color that didn't exist outside dreams.
It filtered through the canopy in slow spirals, painting the forest in hues of warmth and wonder.
Ivy laughed.
Her voice light.
She knelt beside a patch of wildflowers—violet, blue, stitched with tiny runes. Thimble danced around her, tail flicking, paws scattering petals.
She braided a crown.
Placed it on Thimble's head.
He posed.
Regal.
Ridiculous.
Tieran stopped.
Watched.
From afar.
His lips curled into a smile.
Soft.
Real.
Aldi stepped beside him.
Leaned in.
Whispered.
"You two are a perfect match."
Tieran didn't reply.
Just smiled.
Eyes still on Ivy.
Then—
A rustle.
A gasp.
A dramatic cry.
Illan burst from the underbrush.
His robes fluttering.
His satchel swinging.
His hands held high.
"Mushrooms!" he declared. "Magical! Glowing! Possibly sentient!"
He held up a cluster—blue, pulsing, stitched with tiny sigils.
"I found them!" he cried. "I won! I am the champion of foraging! Bow before me!"
Thimble blinked.
Aldi groaned.
Ivy giggled.
Tieran chuckled.
"Did they bow back?"
Illan paused.
Looked at the mushrooms.
Then nodded solemnly.
"They winked."
The forest pulsed.
The sun shimmered.
And for a moment—
They were just people.
Not heirs.
Not poisoned.
Not hunted.
Just—
Together.
The road curved gently downward.
The trees parted.
And Iris Valley unfolded before them.
It wasn't grand.
It wasn't glowing.
It was warm.
The air was thick with the scent of herbs—lavender, sage, crushed mint, and something deeper, like grief steeped in honey. The wind carried whispers, not words. The sun filtered through the canopy in soft spirals, painting the valley in hues of amber and moss.
Stone cottages lined the path, stitched with ivy and rune-carved shutters. Vines curled around chimneys. Smoke drifted upward—not harsh, but fragrant, like someone was brewing healing tea in every home.
Thimble sniffed.
Loudly.
Then gagged.
"Oh," he said, nose scrunched. "Smells like herbs."
He covered his nose with one paw, tail flicking dramatically.
Ivy giggled.
Her eyes wide.
Her seal pulsing softly.
"So this is Iris Valley," she whispered.
She turned in a slow circle, taking it all in—the mossy paths, the rune-lit lanterns, the quiet hum of healing magic stitched into the soil.
Tieran didn't react.
He stood still.
Calm.
Unmesmerized.
He had been here before.
As a child.
When his mother still walked the valley.
When grief hadn't yet stitched itself into his bones.
His eyes scanned the cottages.
The trees.
The fountain carved from memory stone.
Then—
Footsteps.
A man emerged from the healer's hall.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Robes stitched with silver thread and dried herbs.
His hair was streaked with gray.
His eyes—sharp, warm, tired.
Annel.
Illan's father.
He stopped.
Stared.
Then smiled.
"You," he said. "You are son of that storm."
Tieran's lips curled.
Soft.
Sweet.
"Uncle Annel," he said.
Annel stepped forward.
Gripped Tieran's shoulder.
His eyes shimmered.
"You look like her," he said. "But your silence—that's your father."
Aldi leaned in.
Smirked.
"You're alse," he muttered.
Tieran blinked.
"What?"
"Sweet and stormy," Aldi said. "Like a dessert with a dagger in it."
Ivy laughed.
Thimble snorted.
Illan groaned.
The courtyard of Iris Valley was stitched from moss and memory.
Stone benches curved around a fountain carved from griefstone—its waters shimmered faintly, infused with healing threads. Vines curled along the walls, blooming with medicinal blossoms: feverleaf, whisperroot, and the rare duskflower that only bloomed when someone cried nearby.
The air was warm.
Not hot.
Just held.
The scent of herbs drifted lazily—lavender, crushed mint, a hint of clove. Somewhere nearby, someone was brewing tea. The wind carried laughter and the rustle of scrolls.
Illan sat cross-legged on the bench, animated, gesturing wildly with a half-eaten mushroom pastry in hand.
"So then Tieran," he said, "at age five, tried to cast a healing thread on a rock. Said it looked sad."
Aldi snorted.
Thimble rolled onto his back, tail flicking.
Tieran groaned.
"Why are you like this?"
Illan grinned.
"Because you were like that."
Ivy stood nearby, arms folded, smiling softly.
But something in her chest tugged.
Warmth. Then ache.
She wasn't in the story.
Not in the memory.
Not in the before.
Tieran felt it.
He turned.
Walked over.
Gently placed his arm around her shoulder.
"Guess who she is," he said, voice playful, eyes on Annel.
Annel looked up from his herb pouch.
Squinted.
Studied Ivy's face.
Briefly.
Then swung his head toward Tieran.
Tieran smiled.
"Aunt Nia's daughter."
Annel blinked.
Then—
"Oh my," he said. "She looks nothing like her."
He stepped closer.
Eyes soft.
Voice warm.
"Last time I saw Nia," he said, "she was still pregnant. So this little girl—" he gestured to Ivy, "was inside. So cute."
Ivy's breath caught.
Her cheeks flushed.
Her seal pulsed.
"So you know my mother as well?" she asked.
Annel nodded.
"Oh, I know her too well."
He chuckled.
"Once, she accidentally poisoned herself with hanging poison. Came here to cure herself. She was wild. Brilliant. Terrifying."
He rubbed his shoulder.
"She almost crippled me once. Got angry because I told her to rest. She threw a cast through the roof."
Everyone laughed.
Thimble wheezed.
Aldi clapped.
Illan groaned.
Ivy laughed too.
But softer.
Her eyes shimmered.
Her heart—lighter.
Ivy laughed too.
But softer.
Her eyes shimmered.
Her heart—lighter.
And in the quiet between the laughter—
Tieran looked at her.
She looked at him.
Their eyes met.
Held.
No cast.
No bond.
Just—
Warmth.
They didn't speak.
Didn't move.
Just breathed.
Together.
And in that moment—
They started to become each other's home.
The courtyard was still humming with laughter.
Thimble had just tried to wear a mushroom as a hat. Aldi was teasing Illan about his dramatic foraging. Ivy had leaned into Tieran's shoulder, her cheeks flushed from giggles. Even Annel, usually composed, had chuckled at the memory of Nia's cast-shattering tantrum.
The sun filtered through the canopy in soft spirals, painting the mossy stone in hues of amber and dusk. The fountain burbled nearby, its griefstone surface shimmering with healing threads. The scent of herbs—lavender, crushed mint, and feverleaf—drifted lazily in the breeze.
But then—
Ivy stood.
Her laughter faded.
Her seal pulsed low.
"Guys," she said, voice soft but firm. "Remember why we're here."
The courtyard quieted.
Thimble froze mid-tail flick.
Aldi raised an eyebrow.
Illan blinked.
"Uncle Annel," Ivy said, turning to him. "Have a look at Tieran."
Annel straightened.
His smile faded.
Confusion flickered in his eyes.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
Illan stepped forward.
His voice dropped.
"Dad," he said. "Tieran's poisoned. With burning darkness."
Silence.
Annel took a step back.
His eyes widened.
His breath caught.
"Bu… burning darkness?" he whispered. "That's one of the most deadly poisons known. How did you—?"
Tieran raised a hand.
His voice calm.
"It's a long story," he said. "I'll tell you later."
Ivy stepped closer.
Her seal flickering.
Her eyes searching Annel's face.
"Can you cure it?" she asked.
Annel didn't answer right away.
He stepped forward.
Took Tieran's wrist.
Pressed two fingers to the pulse.
His brow furrowed.
His seal glowed faintly.
He closed his eyes.
The courtyard held its breath.
Then—
He opened his eyes.
Shook his head.
"I can't say I can cure it," he said. "I need to check the old records. Speak with the valley elders. Before I can be sure."
He turned to Illan.
Gripped his shoulder.
"Come," he said. "To the pharmacy. We need the archives."
Illan nodded.
Followed.
Their robes fluttered as they disappeared into the healer's hall, the door swinging shut behind them with a soft thud.
Ivy stood still.
Her arms folded.
Her eyes on the door.
Her breath—shaky.
Tieran stepped beside her.
Placed a hand gently on her shoulder.
"I'll be fine," he said.
She didn't look at him.
Not yet.
He leaned in.
Softer.
"We'll be fine."
She turned.
Met his eyes.
And in that quiet moment—
The courtyard pulsed.
The herbs shimmered.
And the griefstone fountain whispered.
The pharmacy hall was quiet.
Not peaceful.
Just… held.
Stone walls lined with shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, each packed with scrolls, books, and jars of dried herbs. The air was thick with the scent of parchment, crushed feverleaf, and old ink. Dust floated in slow spirals, catching the light like memory fragments.
Annel stood at the central table, sleeves rolled, fingers stained with ink and dried balm. His brow furrowed. His seal pulsed faintly as he flipped through a thick, rune-stitched ledger.
Illan moved beside him, scanning scrolls, muttering dates under his breath. His robes brushed the floor, stirring dust. His eyes were sharp, but his shoulders—tense.
Silence.
Pages turned.
Dust settled.
Then—
Annel exhaled.
Low.
Heavy.
"That poor thing," he murmured. "Will he ever get to live normally for a few days? Fate is cruel."
Illan paused.
Looked at him.
Didn't speak.
Just resumed.
The light from the high windows dimmed slightly, filtered through ivy vines and old glass. The pharmacy felt older than it was—like the walls remembered every failed cure.
Footsteps echoed.
Soft.
Measured.
An elder entered.
Robes stitched with gold thread and moss-green trim. His seal glowed faintly, like a lantern in fog. His eyes scanned the room, then settled on Annel and Illan.
"What are you two doing?" he asked, voice calm but edged.
Annel straightened.
Closed the ledger.
"Tieran, my nephew" he said. "He's poisoned. Burning darkness. We're checking the records."
The elder's expression shifted.
From curiosity—
To alarm.
"Burning darkness?" he echoed. "That's ancient. Rare. Dangerous."
He stepped closer.
Then paused.
"You won't find it here," he said. "Those records were moved. Years ago."
Annel frowned.
"Moved?"
The elder nodded.
"By Iva. A former disciple. She was expelled for malpractice twenty-five years ago. Took several volumes with her."
Illan's breath caught.
"so there are no records anymore?"
The elder's voice dropped.
"There are some but, in The Dust Pavilion."
Silence.
Annel stepped back.
His seal dimmed.
"The Pavilion doesn't allow entry," the elder said. "Not anymore."
He turned.
Walked away.
His robes whispered against the stone.
The door closed.
Soft.
Final.
Annel stood still.
One hand on the ledger.
The other clenched.
Illan leaned against the shelf.
His breath shallow.
His eyes unfocused.
The pharmacy pulsed.
The dust shimmered.
And somewhere in the Pavilion—
The cure waited.
Night was falling.
The sun had slipped behind the valley's edge, leaving streaks of gold and violet stitched across the sky like the last threads of a forgotten cast. The air cooled, soft and still, scented with crushed herbs and distant smoke.
The moon rose slowly.
Full. Silver. Quiet.
It hovered above the valley like a watchful eye, casting pale light across the mossy courtyard. The griefstone fountain shimmered faintly, its waters now reflecting moonlight instead of memory.
Ivy stood near the edge of the courtyard, arms folded, eyes on the sky. Her seal pulsed low, steady. Tieran stood beside her, silent, his gaze fixed on the moon's curve.
They didn't speak.
Not yet.
Just breathed.
Together.
Then—
Footsteps.
Soft.
Heavy.
Annel and Illan emerged from the healer's hall.
Their robes were dusted with parchment flakes. Their faces—creased with guilt, exhaustion, and something deeper: incompetence.
Ivy turned.
Her voice was gentle.
But firm.
"What happened?"
Annel stopped.
Looked at her.
Then at Tieran.
He exhaled.
Long.
"We searched everything," he said. "Every scroll, every ledger. The records on burning darkness… they're gone."
Ivy's brow furrowed.
Tieran's jaw clenched.
"Gone?" Ivy asked.
Illan nodded.
"They were moved. Years ago. By Iva."
Tieran's eyes flared.
His seal pulsed.
"Her again," he muttered.
Annel stepped forward.
His voice low.
Measured.
"She was a disciple here. Brilliant. Reckless. Expelled for malpractice twenty-five years ago. She took several volumes with her—rare ones. Dangerous ones."
Ivy's breath caught.
Her seal flickered.
Annel looked up.
Toward the northern ridge.
"Those records can have a copies but, in The Dust Pavilion."
Silence.
The wind stirred the ivy vines.
The moon shimmered.
"What is it?" Ivy asked.
Annel's voice dropped.
"It's like a universal library. Every poison. Every cure. Every method. Every technique. It has everything."
He paused.
Looked at Tieran.
"But it doesn't allow entry. Not all pass the barrier. It sealed itself seventeen years ago. No one's been inside since."
Tieran stepped forward.
His seal glowing faintly.
His eyes—sharp.
"Then we'll unseal it."
Ivy nodded.
Her voice steady.
"We'll find a way."
Annel didn't speak.
Illan looked uncertain.
But the moon above pulsed.
The wind whispered.
And the valley held its breath.
The path to the Dust Pavilion was stitched from stone and shadow.
No lanterns. No runes. Just moss-covered steps winding through the northern ridge, where the valley's warmth faded into silence.
The moon hung low now.
Silver. Still. Watching.
The trees here were taller, darker—bark veined with old sigils, leaves that didn't rustle. The wind didn't speak. It listened.
Annel walked ahead, robes brushing the moss, his seal glowing faintly like a thread of memory. Ivy and Tieran followed, side by side, their steps slow, deliberate.
They reached the gate.
It wasn't grand.
It was sealed.
Two towering stone doors, carved with ancient runes and layered with dust so thick it looked like ash. Vines curled around the edges, brittle and silver. The air shimmered faintly—like the gate was breathing.
Annel turned.
Faced them.
His eyes—tired, knowing.
"Depends on your fate," he said. "I'll look for other books meanwhile."
He didn't wait for a reply.
Just turned.
Walked back down the path.
His footsteps faded.
The wind held its breath.
Ivy and Tieran stood still.
Before the gate.
The Dust Pavilion loomed.
Silent. Heavy. Alive.
Ivy stepped forward.
Her fingers brushed the stone.
Her seal pulsed.
Tieran didn't move.
Just watched her.
Then looked up.
His eyes scanned the carvings.
The runes.
The barrier.
They didn't speak.
Not yet.
Their breath synced.
Their hearts thudded.
Their bond hummed.
They stared at the gate—
With passion. With hope. With need.
And somewhere far below—
In the valley's guestroom—
Aldi snored.
Loudly.
Thimble was curled beside her, tail twitching, one paw over his nose. A half-eaten mushroom pastry lay beside the bed. A scroll was draped over Aldi's face like a blanket.
The room was warm.
Lit by a single rune-lantern.
The scent of herbs drifted through the window.
They slept like chaos wrapped in comfort.
Unaware.
Unbothered.
But at the gate—
Ivy and Tieran stood.
Not as heirs.
Not as poisoned.
Just—
Determined.
The moon had climbed high.
Silver. Still. Unblinking.
Its light spilled across the ridge like a soft veil, casting long shadows over the moss-covered path and the towering stone gate of the Dust Pavilion. The air was cool now, tinged with the scent of crushed ivy and old stone. The wind had quieted, as if the valley itself was holding its breath.
The gate loomed.
Two massive doors carved from griefstone, veined with silver runes and layered in centuries of dust. Vines curled around the edges, brittle and pale. The surface shimmered faintly, like it was stitched from silence and memory.
Ivy and Tieran had been working for hours.
Their hands were coated in dust. Their seals pulsed low, tired but stubborn. Ivy had traced every groove, pressed every rune, whispered every cast she knew. Tieran had tried to shift the stones, to read the pattern, to feel the pulse beneath the surface.
Nothing.
Ivy groaned.
Slumped against the gate.
Her braid was loose, her cheeks flushed, her boots scuffed and streaked with moss.
"What is this?" she muttered. "When can we get in? I'm hungry. I'm tired. I'm gonna cry."
Tieran turned.
His lips curled into a soft, crooked smile.
He reached into his robe.
Pulled out—
A small cloth bundle.
Unwrapped it.
Dark pancakes.
Still warm.
Ivy blinked.
Then laughed.
"Seriously, dude," she said, grabbing one. "You're my guardian fairy, aren't you?"
Tieran leaned closer.
His voice dropped.
Soft.
"I can be more than a guardian fairy."
Silence.
Ivy froze.
Her heart fluttered.
Her seal pulsed.
Her cheeks flushed.
Tieran blinked.
Even he was surprised.
They stared at each other.
Eyes wide.
Breath caught.
The moonlight wrapped around them like a thread.
The gate shimmered.
The runes pulsed.
Then—
A laugh.
Soft.
Echoing.
Not theirs.
"How cute," the voice said. "Haven't seen such love birds in ages."
Ivy and Tieran turned.
Together.
Eyes wide.
"The doors just spoke!" they said in unison.
The gate shimmered again.
Dust stirred.
Runes glowed.
Then—
A voice.
Warm. Ancient. Slightly amused.
"Yes, we did. We're alive. We speak. We were having a long nap. You two woke us up."
Tieran blinked.
Stepped forward.
His voice steady.
"Can we go through?"
The doors ignored the question.
Instead—
"How did you two meet?"
Ivy groaned.
Her braid slipped over her shoulder.
Her cheeks flushed.
"That's not important," she said. "Can we go?"
The doors pulsed.
"How did you meet?"
Tieran glanced at Ivy.
Then at the gate.
Then back at Ivy.
"Our parents are close friends," he said. "We've known each other since we were children."
The gate hummed.
Soft.
Delighted.
"What a cute story," it said. "Tell us more."
Ivy blinked.
Then leaned toward Tieran.
Whispered.
"These doors seem to be interested in matchmaking."
Tieran leaned toward Ivy.
Voice low.
"What should we do?"
Ivy's eyes flicked to the gate.
Then back to Tieran.
Her lips curled.
"Let's play along."
She stepped forward.
Cleared her throat.
"Let us in," she said to the doors. "We'll tell you everything."
The gate pulsed.
Hesitated.
Then—
A voice.
Warm. Ancient. Slightly dramatic.
"What if your story isn't interesting? Our next novel idea will be a flop."
Ivy's jaw dropped.
She blinked.
Twice.
"Seriously?" she muttered. "These doors are writing romance novels?"
Tieran looked stunned.
Then amused.
Then slightly terrified.
Ivy stepped closer.
Her voice steady.
"Our story is cozy," she said. "With ups and downs. You'll love it. Readers will cry reading it."
The gate shimmered.
Runes glowed.
Dust stirred.
"Really?" the voice asked. "Tell us a small event, then."
Silence.
The wind held its breath.
The moon brightened.
Ivy turned to Tieran.
Her eyes soft.
Her seal pulsing.
"Tell them," she whispered.
Tieran stepped forward.
His voice low.
"There was a day," he said, "when Ivy tried to cast a memory thread and accidentally stitched it to a teacup."
Ivy groaned.
"Don't tell that one."
Tieran smiled.
"She cried for an hour because the teacup kept whispering her secrets."
The gate pulsed.
Soft laughter echoed.
"We were expecting something romantic and emotional," the voice said, slightly pouty.
Ivy blinked.
Then stepped forward.
Firm.
Playful.
She pushed Tieran gently back with one hand.
He stumbled a step, eyebrows raised.
"Okay," Ivy said, clearing her throat. "Just a few days ago, I was kidnapped by some evil honeybees."
Tieran's expression twisted.
He opened his mouth—
But Ivy slapped her hand over it.
"I was frightened," she continued, dramatic. "Scared. Alone. Then suddenly—like a hero—he entered. He casted the honeybees away and saved me."
Tieran's eyes narrowed.
His voice muffled behind her hand.
"Seriously, Ivy? Those honeybees were pollinating. They had no other job."
The gate pulsed.
Soft laughter echoed.
"Hero saving a beauty," it said. "How romantic. So what happens next?"
Ivy blinked.
Then shrugged.
"What should happen next?"
The gate hummed.
"Shouldn't there be a romantic, typical kiss scene?"
Silence.
Ivy froze.
Her hand dropped from Tieran's mouth.
Her cheeks flushed.
Her seal pulsed.
Tieran stepped forward.
His voice low.
Measured.
"Of course there was," he said. "But… those are personal moments. Not comfortable sharing."
The gate pulsed.
"Tell us. Your secrets are safe here."
Ivy turned to Tieran.
He turned to her.
Their eyes met.
Those two are out of ideas now.
The moon was still watching.
Silver. Still. Judgy.
Its light spilled across the ridge like a veil, casting long shadows over the griefstone gate of the Dust Pavilion. The air was cool, tinged with crushed ivy, old stone, and the faint scent of emotional discomfort.
The gate shimmered.
Two towering doors, veined with silver runes and layered in centuries of dust. Vines curled around the edges like nosy eyebrows. The surface pulsed faintly—like it was stitched from breath and gossip.
Ivy and Tieran stood before it.
Dust on their boots. Sweat on their brows. Hope in their hearts.
And now—
Embarrassment.
"Speak without words," the gate had said. "Say something real. Something that matters."
Ivy blinked.
Her braid was half undone.
Her seal pulsed like a nervous heartbeat.
Tieran shifted.
His cloak was crooked.
His eyes—wide, slightly panicked.
They turned to face each other.
No words.
Just breath.
Ivy raised an eyebrow.
Tieran raised both.
She reached for his hand.
He flinched—just slightly—then let her take it.
Her fingers curled around his.
Her seal glowed—soft, golden, like a nervous laugh.
Tieran stared at her.
Then reached up.
Brushed a strand of hair from her face.
His fingers lingered.
Too long.
Ivy blinked.
"Okay," she mouthed. "That's illegal."
Tieran smirked.
"Gate said no words."
Their eyes met.
Held.
Then darted away.
Then met again.
Her breath hitched.
His seal pulsed.
She placed her hand on his chest.
Right over the seal.
He placed his hand on hers.
Their seals glowed in sync.
Gold. Silver. Threaded.
The gate hummed.
"You two are ridiculous," it said. "But I'm invested."
Ivy groaned.
"Are we being emotionally blackmailed by a door?"
Tieran nodded.
"Feels like it."
The gate pulsed.
"Tell us more. We want a kiss scene."
Ivy froze.
Her cheeks flushed.
Her seal flickered.
Tieran blinked.
"Wow. Okay. That escalated."
Ivy turned to him.
Whispered.
"Do we… do we have to?"
Tieran leaned in.
Voice low.
Playful.
"I mean… I could kiss you. For the plot."
Ivy snorted.
"You're insufferable."
The gate sighed.
"Fine. You pass. But I'm keeping notes for the sequel."
A low hum filled the air.
Then—
The doors split.
Not with a creak.
But with a giggle.
Light spilled out.
Soft. Golden. Threaded with memory.
Ivy and Tieran stepped back.
Eyes wide.
Seals pulsing.
Then—
The stone shifted.
Rippled.
Transformed.
Two figures stepped out.
One was tall, cloaked in parchment and ink stains, scribbling furiously into a floating scroll.
The other—
A girl.
Gossipy. Glowing. Grinning.
She twirled her braid, winked at Ivy, and said—
"We're following you for notes."
Ivy blinked.
Tieran blinked harder.
"Wait," Ivy said. "You're the gate?"
The girl nodded.
"Technically, we're the manifestations of the gate's narrative interface."
The note-taker didn't look up.
"Chapter 23: Entry into Dust Pavilion," he muttered.
Tieran groaned.
"I regret everything."
Ivy elbowed him.
"You offered to kiss me for the plot."
The gossipy girl clapped.
"See? This is exactly the kind of tension we need."
They stepped forward.
Into the Dust Pavilion.
It was massive.
Vaulted ceilings. Floating shelves. Dust swirling like memory threads.
Books lined every wall.
Some glowing. Some humming. Some weeping.
Broken spells flickered in jars.
Manuals stitched with griefstone lay open on rune-carved tables.
The air was thick with magic.
And secrets.
Ivy stepped in first.
Her boots crunched on old parchment.
Her seal pulsed.
Tieran followed.
His eyes scanned the shelves.His hand brushed hers.
Behind them—
The gossip girl whispered.The note-taker scribbled.
And the Dust Pavilion—
Watched.