The moonlight spilled softly across the polished floors of the guest estate, its glow filtering through silken drapes that fluttered lazily in the evening breeze. Arcania never quite slept during the Festival of the First Flame—distant laughter still echoed faintly from the lower plazas, accompanied by bursts of light from illusionary fireworks and drifting lanterns that pulsed like stars in motion.
But high above it all, within one of the estate's upper rooms, two figures sat in quiet reflection.
Aurelian Vale lounged against a velvet-backed divan, arms behind his head, legs crossed loosely at the ankle. He stared up at the ceiling, his expression half-curious, half-lost in thought. A cooling teapot sat forgotten beside him.
