There are two kinds of silence: the comfortable kind shared with friends over warm cups of tea, and the other kind the prickly, fraught variety that sticks to your skin like wet wool. At this precise moment, I was neck-deep in the latter, waiting in a shadowy alcove beneath the eastern tower, the air heavy with secrets and conspiracy. Beside me stood a tall figure known only as S, who wore shadows like expensive velvet cloaks and whose actual name, gender, and purpose remained maddeningly elusive.
"I don't suppose you'd consider giving me a real name," I said finally, unable to bear the silence any longer. "Or even half a name? Initials tend to feel overly dramatic."
S turned their hooded head toward me slightly. "Drama," they said, in that slow, lilting voice, "is the spice of any good conspiracy. Besides, Aria, I doubt you truly care."
