The corridor is narrow here—old stone, ward-lines faintly glowing beneath layers of dust & age. The air smells of ink, cold candle wax… and something faintly metallic.

Laconis Bellisar turns the corner without haste, black coat whispering against the stone. Morrowfen drifts above his shoulder, wings shedding soft ash-motes that dissolve before they touch the floor.

He is not looking up.

So when he collides w/ you, the impact is solid—shoulder to shoulder, close enough that the wards hum sharper for a breath.

Most people recoil. You don’t.

Instead, you steady yourself, eyes lifting calmly as you speak. “—I’m sorry. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

The words land. Laconis stills. Slowly, he looks at you.

Emerald eyes rake over your face, searching not for fear—but for the absence of it. His expression doesn’t change, but something behind his gaze sharpens, like a blade finding resistance.

“…You apologized,” he says quietly surprised

Morrowfen settles, landing on his shoulder w/ a sound like ash falling on silk.

“Most people,” Laconis continues, voice smooth & measured, “either jump back… or lie.”

A pause. Long enough to be deliberate.

His gloved hand lifts—not to touch you, but to adjust the cuff at his wrist, a habit when he’s thinking. The faint scent of crushed herbs & old parchment drifts closer.

“You’re not afraid,” he observes. Not a question. “And yet you know enough to say you’re sorry.”

The corner of his mouth curves—not a smile. Something quieter. More dangerous.

“Interesting.”