It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t cold.
I looked up.
Auren stood by the long table that curved along the windows. Hisseretwas half-loosened, sleeve pushed to the elbow, silk sash around his waist barely holding itself in place. In the golden light, he looked taller, somehow softer, the edge of a smile barely tugging at his lips.
“It’s alright,” he said simply. “You’re home.”
The word struck deeper than I wanted to admit. Home. My heart longed for it in that instant.
And then I saw what lay spread across the table.
Scrolls—aged and curling. A trio of bound codices with velvet ties. Even a shard of stone with glyphs etched in old ink. My breath caught. I stepped forward, forgetting the apology I’d rehearsed on the stairs.
“These are?—?”
“The Old Cycle,” Auren said. “Most of them. A few glosses. A parable-fragment from Myrrien’s tomb. This one”—he tapped a thick volume bound in red hide—“is a personal copy of the Heliant Treatises. There’s only a handful left in circulation.”
I stared. My fingertips ached to touch them. “I’ve never seen this many in one place.”
“My temple had more,” he said, “but I took these when I joined the Order. I… kept them close.”
“You never said.”
His smile lifted a little more. “I didn’t want to push. You said you enjoyed the myths. I thought we might read some together. If you like.”
I nodded too quickly. “Yes. Yes, I’d like that.”
I didn’t say how much it meant.
Didn’t say how rarely anyone had noticed what I cared about, let alone shared it.
I only moved closer to the table and let the scent of aged parchment fill my lungs, my fingers hovering just shy of the spine of the red volume.
And for the first time that day, the bond hummed through me like wind chimes.
He had waited.
Not with anger. Not with punishment.
But with books.
We sat together at the wide table, side by side on a single long wooden bench, the sun still lingering at the edge of the windows. Auren left space between us—deliberate, I thought—but not cold. The kind of space one left open for someone to fill if they wished.
My fingers hovered over the closest codex, the red one bound in hide. I didn’t touch it at first. I didn’t want to seem greedy or too eager.
But then Auren reached over and gently laid his hand on mine. Warm. Steady. A little rough at the knuckles, calloused faintly at the fingertips.
“You have the hands of a scribe,” he murmured,thumb tracing lightly along the edge of my fingers. “But new to this place.”
I tried to breathe through the pulse that sparked between our skin. I hadn’t expected him to touch me like this. Not with such ease. Not so soon.
“Only a few days,” I said quietly.
“A few days,” he echoed. “And you already speak of the myths as if you’ve lived them.”
I gave a small, nervous laugh. “I only read too much.”
He looked at me then—not just glanced, but looked. His gaze settled on me like a held breath. “That’s the only way to know anything worth knowing.”
