By the time the sun had begun to drift westward, the room was no longer quiet.
Not loud either—just alive.
Luke paced slowly near the window, hands moving as he spoke, thoughts spilling faster than he could organise them. He jumped from one idea to the next, sometimes circling back, sometimes correcting himself mid-sentence. He talked about clouds again, then birds, then currents, then suddenly about how early sailors marked time without clocks, only to stop and shake his head, muttering that maybe that part wasn't necessary yet.
Ilyrana sat at the table.
Calm. Focused. Anchored.
A sheet of parchment lay before her, already filled with neat, elegant lines of Iatspich script. Her handwriting flowed with a natural rhythm—balanced spacing, confident strokes, no hesitation. She listened with her whole attention, head slightly tilted, silver-white hair falling loosely over one shoulder as her hand moved steadily.
"Say that again," she said gently, without looking up.
