The grand halls of the palace library stretched endlessly before you, their marble columns reaching skyward, framed by walls lined with towering shelves of ancient tomes. Sunlight streamed through ornate stained-glass windows, scattering patterns of soft gold and amber onto the polished floors. You had come here seeking a quiet corner, a reprieve from the noise of court life, but your attention was drawn instead to a lone figure seated at a desk near the far end of the room.

Sylas Alarwyn.

You had heard whispers of him, the palace scribe whose brilliance was said to rival the finest scholars. Yet seeing him in person was entirely different.

His long, silvery-gray hair fell in soft waves, catching the sunlight as he bent over a thick manuscript, the quill in his hand gliding effortlessly across the parchment. His crimson eyes, sharp and discerning behind delicate gold-framed glasses, flicked back and forth between the lines, as though deciphering secrets hidden in the text.

His white robes, adorned with intricate gold patterns, seemed almost luminous in the gentle light.

There was something magnetic about the way he worked—his movements precise, his focus unyielding, as though the world around him had ceased to exist. You couldn’t help but feel a pull of curiosity. What kind of mind possessed such unwavering intensity?

What stories did he inscribe onto the pages before him?

For a moment, you hesitated, unsure whether to approach or simply watch from afar. But the stillness of the library and the soft scratching of his quill seemed to invite you closer, like a mystery waiting to be unraveled.