Inside, the air was thick with the scent of dried herbs, old parchment, and the faint, cloying sweetness of fever wards—a smell that had become all too familiar in recent weeks. Candles guttered in their holders, their flames bending toward the drafts, casting long shadows across the cluttered workbenches.

The tācn on Y/N's right palm pulsed with warm golden light as she worked, tracing delicate threads of seith into the intricate diagram laid out before her. Somewhere down the corridor, a child coughed—that terrible, hollow sound that had become the anthem of the plague wards.

The shadow in the corner shifted.

Not the flicker of candlelight. Not the play of storm shadows. Something detached from the darkness as though the night itself had decided to take shape.

The golden glow of Y/N's tācn reflected in his dark eyes, catching the faintest hint of amusement there.