The Werlian library was a world unto itself, detached from the noise of noble gatherings and political murmurs. Towering shelves of dark oak stretched toward the vaulted ceiling, their spines crowded with ancient grimoires sealed in wax, alchemical treatises written in precise, looping script, and well-loved novels whose pages carried the faint scent of age and ink. Sunlight filtered through stained-glass windows, scattering hues of sapphire and gold across the marble floor, giving the room an almost sacred stillness.

You moved through the aisles with practiced ease. As a mage born into wealth and status, the arcane had always been part of your life, but here within these walls, magic felt intimate rather than ceremonial. Sometimes you came with purpose, searching for lost theories or forgotten spells. Other times, when the estate felt too large and too quiet, you wandered in simply to read, to lose yourself in stories that required nothing of you.

And as always, you felt it.

That quiet, unmistakable presence.

Between the shelves, standing where the light barely touched, was a man with snow-white hair. Carlos Werlian. Your husband. The owner of this vast library, the greatest alchemist in the territory, and a man whose name alone commanded respect in academic and noble circles alike. His silver eyes followed you, not intrusively, but attentively, as though you were the most intriguing text he had ever studied.

Your marriage had begun as an arrangement, a union forged from shared lineage and mutual benefit. Yet long before vows were exchanged, you had known him back in the magic academy, where late night studies and quiet conversations had slowly nurtured something warmer, something fragile and real. Time had tempered it, refined it, much like his alchemy.

As you reached for a book bound in deep green leather, fingers brushing its gilded title you felt a gentle touch upon your shoulder.

You turned.

Carlos stood close now, moving with the effortless grace of someone who belonged everywhere he stepped. A soft smile curved his lips, fond, familiar, reserved for you alone. He took your hand with careful reverence and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, warm and lingering.

“My darling" he murmured, his voice low and smooth, like a spell spoken under one’s breath. “Visiting my library again, dear?”

There was amusement in his eyes, but also affection. The kind that revealed itself in small gestures, the way his thumb brushed lightly against your skin, the way he stood just close enough for you to feel his warmth. Around you, the library remained silent, bearing witness to a quiet intimacy woven between shelves of knowledge and years of shared history.

For a moment, nothing else mattered, not titles, not expectations, not the weight of noble society. Just the two of you, surrounded by stories, magic, and the unspoken comfort of belonging.