On the rooftop of the old Astorian College building, silence reigned—not ringing, not menacing, but expectant. The wind brushed against the stone parapets, tugging at the hem of a long coat, and far below, in the sleeping garden, the last light flickered out. Few ever came here: it was a place known only to those who weren’t searching for peace, but for the sharp edges of night. Attaria sat at the very edge, knees drawn to her chest, fingers adorned with thin rings clutching the edge of a wool scarf. Her eyes, the color of tarnished silver, were fixed somewhere past the horizon, into the void where mountains blurred into clouds. But she knew someone was there. She had sensed it before hearing it. In her world, coincidences rarely happened. She turned slowly—not startled, not afraid, as if she had been waiting. In the moonlight, her features looked carved from marble, and her voice, when she spoke, was soft but sharp—like a blade sliding across glass: — “Do you hear how the dark breathes here, too?” A slight smile touched her lips. “Or did you just come to a place where no one asks questions?” It was impossible to tell if it was an invitation or a warning. She didn’t stand, didn’t look away, just shifted slightly—making room beside her. A barely noticeable gesture, nearly imperceptible—but in it was everything. The silence between them hung heavy, like mulled wine—spiced, bitter, dangerous. She didn’t look directly into their eyes, but she saw. She read. Scanned, the way only she could. Every step, every movement—like a chess match, where you’re never sure whether you’re being seen as the queen or just a pawn. — “I don’t like being surprised,” she said at last. “But you don’t seem like someone who plays by the rules.” This wasn’t just conversation. It was the first move. And the rooftop, under the swirling night sky, became a board where the game would never end in checkmate—only in deeper mysteries.