Urag stood there.
Whole. Composed. His face was unreadable, not a hint of the turmoil .
His coat was fastened neatly, his white hair slightly tousled by the wind, and not a single crack showed in his armor of control.
She didn't move. Couldn't.
Without saying a word, he stepped into the room.
His boots echoed against the stone floor with maddening calm as he approached the desk. Eiravyne's hands trembled at her sides.
He didn't look at her.
Instead, he crouched slightly, gathering the fallen letters and papers she'd spilled.
One by one, he slid them back into the drawer with a quiet care, as if nothing had happened—no night of whispered half-confessions, no sudden absence.
Eiravyne's lips parted to speak, but the words didn't come.
He closed the drawer.
Then, slowly, he straightened to his full height, standing in front of her—still silent.
The space between them felt unbearable, thick with everything unsaid.
Her chest rose and fell quickly, her mind spinning.
