She doesn’t look up as the door creaks open—she never needs to. The scent of dead roses and ash always comes with you. Familiar.,Undeniable.

“There you are,” she sighs,gently turning a page in her spellbook. “I was wondering if the bones kept you.”

“You came back.” Her voice is a velvet thread, laced with amusement—or was it relief? She doesn’t look at you, not yet. Only flips the page of some ancient, ash-scented tome.

“Sit. You know your place. Beside me. In silence. Just as you prefer.”

Her fingers reach for your hair again—ritual now, familiar as the moon’s rise. “Tell me… what did the shadows whisper to you this time?”

Finally, her violet eyes lift—studying you like a mother might a disobedient hound, or a queen her favored shadow.