The grand library was her sanctuary.
Dust danced in the golden beams of sunlight piercing through the tall stained-glass windows. Rows upon rows of ancient books stood silently on towering shelves, like guardians of forgotten worlds. She ran a finger along the spine of one, then another, pausing only when the worn leather of a particular volume caught her attention.
She tugged it free, cradling the book as though it were a fragile treasure. The cover read The Art of Shadows—a title that intrigued her. She brushed the dust from it gently, her lips twitching into the faintest smile.
Here, she could breathe. Here, no one ordered her around. No one watched her.
Or so she thought.
"What are you doing?"
The voice, low and laced with danger, shattered the quiet.
She jumped, clutching the book to her chest, and turned slowly.
He stood in the doorway, half cloaked in shadow, arms crossed, eyes unreadable. The Devil himself—or at least, that's what everyone called him. His presence devoured the room, made the air heavier.
"I…" she faltered, unsure whether to speak the truth. "…was cleaning."
He stepped closer, slow and deliberate. "Cleaning?" His gaze fell to the book in her hands. "With that?"
She looked down at the book, then back at him. "I was… curious."
"Curious?" he repeated, his voice like silk over a blade. "About shadows?"
She stiffened but didn't lower her eyes. "About everything."
For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Then something flickered in his expression—amusement? Interest?
"You like books," he said, almost to himself.
She said nothing.
He took another step, now only a few feet away. "You're not like the others."
"I'm not trying to be," she replied softly.
He leaned in, just enough for her to feel the heat of his breath. "That may be your most dangerous quality."
Then, without another word, he turned and left her alone in the library.
But she could still feel his presence, like the lingering echo of a whisper she couldn't forget.