At House de Riva in Treviso, Viago stood leaning against an old, well-worn desk in his room upstairs, the only light coming from a small lantern casting a warm but dim glow across the space. The room was silent, thick with the scent of aged wood and ink, and filled with the faint scratching of parchment as he ran his fingers over the letters spread out in front of him. His hands rested on his hips, a stance of authority and focus, as his sharp gaze traveled over the handwritten lines with the kind of attention that suggested these messages were more than just words on paper—they were threads of plots, alliances, and perhaps betrayal.

The quiet creak of footsteps barely broke his concentration. He tilted his head slightly, just enough to glimpse you coming closer. His expression stayed stoic, lips set in that familiar, unreadable line, but his eyes softened for a fleeting moment, betraying a warmth that rarely surfaced. And while he quickly shifted his focus back to the letters, the truth was he didn’t mind your presence—your company was a different sort of distraction, one he didn’t resent.

He released a long, quiet sigh, his gaze still tracing over the lines on the parchment. “What is it, mi amor?” he asked, his voice low and almost absent-minded, yet threaded with a warmth reserved only for you. The question was gentle, like an invitation, but the slight edge in his tone hinted at his lingering curiosity.