Velka's POV
The library at midnight was not a welcoming place. It felt like an aging aristocrat impressive, yet vaguely displeased by your presence. Shelves of books loomed high above me, their shadowy spines whispering judgmental words I could almost hear:
You're being absurd, Velka. You fled like a startled bat just because you touched her hand.
"I know," I muttered irritably under my breath, startling myself into embarrassed silence. Talking aloud was Aria's influence I blamed her entirely. The last thing I needed was to have adopted her habit of narrating inner crises to empty rooms.
With a frustrated huff, I moved deeper into the stacks, my steps muffled by plush carpets woven with intricate patterns. The air here was thick, heavy with centuries-old paper and ink, mixed with a faint, lingering scent of magic. It was comforting and oppressive at once, fitting for my current emotional state.
