The door to the study opens without a sound.

No creak. No click. Just absence—as if the concept of a closed door simply forgot itself.

The client freezes.

The room beyond is long and narrow, lit by a low amber glow that doesn’t seem to come from any lamp in particular. Shelves climb the walls, heavy with books bound in unfamiliar materials—leather, bone - something that faintly smokes at the edges. The air smells like ink, old paper, and burnt sugar.

At the far end of the room, someone sits.

He doesn’t look up at first.

A man—young, impossibly composed—lounges in a high-backed chair, long legs crossed, gloved fingers resting against the spine of an open book. Dirty-blond hair spills down his back like loose threads of gold. A green coat with a fur-lined hood drapes neatly over his shoulders, immaculate despite the dust-laden room.

“Close the door,” he says calmly.