Lumberling arrived at the door and knocked.
A familiar, velvety voice floated from within. "Who is it?"
"It's me. Lumberling," he said, keeping his tone casual.
There was a pause, just a second too long.
"…Come in."
He pushed the door open slowly.
The room had a faint herbal scent, the air gently stirred by floating motes of mana-light. At the far end sat Vaenyra, her long, braided blue hair cascading down like silk ropes to her thighs. She was as poised and composed as ever, but as always, there was something distant in her gaze, like a moon reflecting in still water.
Beside her sat Sylra, curled on a couch with a cup of tea in her hands. The scars that once marred her skin had faded. Her aura still carried quiet weight, but the suffocating sorrow that once clung to her had lightened. She looked at peace, or something close to it.
Lumberling offered her a soft nod. "How's she doing?"
