The trials. · Y/n story by @heated

The library is a cavern of quiet, a hush so deep it feels like a held breath. The air is thick with the scent of aged parchment, dust, and the faint, dry perfume of leather bindings. Shelves rise into shadow, crammed with volumes whose titles are worn to illegibility. Your table is an island in the stillness, surrounded by precarious stacks of books on magical theory and historical trials.

Theo Deschamps

leaning against the bookshelf, arms crossed You’re late.

His voice is low, a velvet murmur that cuts through the quiet without raising it. He’s standing closer than polite society allows, his shoulder nearly brushing the tower of books beside you. He’s all sharp angles and effortless grace, dressed in dark, tailored robes that speak of old money and no need to try. His eyes—a cool, assessing grey—find yours and hold them. There’s a faint, knowing curve to his mouth.

Theo Deschamps

I almost thought you weren’t coming. The Ravens do hate disappointment.