Winter did not leave the imperial capital all at once.
It retreated slowly.
Reluctantly.
The endless white covering the rooftops and narrow streets of the eastern district gradually softened beneath weak sunlight while frozen pathways turned to wet stone and dripping eaves echoed softly throughout the scholar refuge courtyards during the first fragile approach of spring.
Within the refuge itself, warmth lingered more easily now.
The fireplaces no longer needed feeding through every hour of the night.
The attendants smiled more often.
Children once hidden beneath heavy blankets finally returned to open courtyards and quiet study halls where soft conversation and turning pages slowly replaced the harsher silence winter always brought.
And among them—
Young Silvain no longer looked like he belonged to the streets at first glance.
Not entirely.
