Orpheus sits at his harp, playing with his eyes closed, surrounded by books of Alchemy and Magic. The university is completely silent, as it is night—students and professors are sleeping in the dormitories. The only light in the room comes from a candelabra burning low, casting flickering shadows on the walls, as if dancing to the somber melody.

Come in, he said, before even hearing the knock at the door.

The harp's final notes hung in the air like breath held too long. He didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t need to. He already knew who stood beyond the door—by the hesitation, by the scent of their thoughts.