The doors parted with a whisper.
Priscilla stepped into the private chamber of the Sanctum's northern wing—high ceilings laced with starlight glass, the kind that shimmered subtly in rhythm with ambient mana. A slow, drifting glow pulsed from the wall-etched constellations, bathing the room in calm radiance. No guards. No advisors. Just quiet.
And him.
Lucavion stood at the center.
No throne. No dais. No performative distance. Just a simple low table with two seats placed across from one another. Tea already poured. Still warm.
The tea on the table shimmered faintly—its steam rising in slow, curling trails that hadn't lost their warmth. Odd.
Priscilla's gaze lingered on the cups for a beat too long.
They weren't freshly poured. Not exactly. There was no trace of magic preserving their heat, no visible servant just having stepped out. Yet something about the placement—the precise angle of the saucers, the consistency of the steam—made it feel… recurring.
