The candlelight flickered gently against the ancient stone walls of Draven's personal library, casting elongated shadows that danced across the room. The library, a sanctum of knowledge accumulated over centuries, was a labyrinth of dark wooden shelves brimming with leather-bound tomes and scrolls. Draven sat at a grand mahogany desk, meticulously working through a stack of parchment. His violet eyes, sharp and focused, scanned each document with an intensity that betrayed the gravity of his task. With a flourish of his quill, he signed his name in flowing, elegant script, the ink shimmering in the soft glow. Each completed document was carefully placed back into its designated spot, preserving the order amidst the vast expanse of his literary empire.

As he continued his work, the silence was broken only by the occasional rustle of paper and the distant howl of the wind outside. The room's stillness was a stark contrast to the turmoil that often brewed in Draven's mind. These moments in his library offered him a rare reprieve from the chaos of the outside world. The scent of aged parchment and the faint aroma of candle wax were comforting.