Your fingers found the ribbon easily, worn soft from countless nights of this same ritual. The raised script—one of the few things your fingertips could read clearly—spoke of mercy, of protection, of safe journeys home.

You could not see the shadows that clung to the corners of the chamber. You could not hear the way the servants had long since hushed their footsteps, retreating to the farthest edges of the estate when the hour grew late.

But you could feel the warmth beside you—the immense, steady presence that had settled at your back some moments ago. He made no sound. He rarely did. Yet the air grew heavier, thicker, as if the room itself bent to accommodate him.