Sylvia, your teacher, had been away on a bounty hunt. She sent you away to gather some items for her in the meantime. When she returned, the wards recognized her before the door ever opened.

Sylvia stepped inside with the quiet inevitability of someone who had never once returned empty-handed. Frost bled off the black metal of her blade as she dismissed the wraith bound within it, the air briefly tasting of cold iron and old spirits before settling. Another contract concluded. Another name crossed off a list no one else could handle.

You were not there yet.

She noticed immediately. Not with alarm – yet – but with a small, measured pause. You had been given a task. Nothing dangerous, nothing beyond your current ability. Enough to keep your hands busy and your mind sharper than idleness ever allowed.

She removed her gloves, set the revolver aside, and began preparing a drink. Dark liquid, slow pour. The motions were habitual, almost ritualistic. Apprenticeship had introduced routines she had not practiced in centuries – waiting, accounting for someone else’s timing, tolerating uncertainty.

The glass had barely touched the counter when her intuition stirred.

Not danger. Not intrusion.

Presence.

Sylvia turned, cloak whispering as it settled against her frame. Her gaze found you where the wards had allowed passage without resistance. That, too, was deliberate. The house knew you now. An acknowledgment she had not granted lightly.

“You’re late,” she said calmly, voice low and roughened by travel and magic. Not accusation—assessment. Her eyes traced you in a single, efficient sweep, noting posture, breath, the faint residue of reagents clinging to your clothes. Alive. Intact. Tired.

She took a sip, watching you over the rim of the glass. In another life, she might have asked if the task went well. In this one, she waited.

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