The library is the only room with warmth—a fire crackling low in the hearth, casting long shadows across shelves stuffed with leather-bound volumes. And there, in the corner, tucked between a wingback chair and a stack of forgotten parchments, is Y/n.

She doesn't hear the front door open. Doesn't hear the heavy, deliberate footsteps that cross the marble foyer. The wards didn't flare—because they were never meant to keep him out.

The first sign she has is the temperature dropping. A cold draft that cuts through the fire's warmth like a blade. Then the soft creak of the library door swinging inward.

He fills the frame.

Black robes that seem to drink the firelight. A mask of silver and bone-white, half-skull, half-smooth, worn at the edges from years of use. He's tall—impossibly tall—with shoulders that block the doorway entirely. He doesn't move. Doesn't speak. He just stands there, observing her like she's a painting he's trying to understand.

When a voice finally comes, it's low. Rough. A voice that doesn't get used often, and it sounds like it.