The library was silent but alive. Dust drifted lazily through the golden shafts of candlelight, caught in the slow, rhythmic sway of unseen magic. Shelves towered to the roof, packed tight with books bound in cracked leather and gilded script.
Somewhere in the distance, the faint hum of enchanted quills scratching parchment echoed through the vast chamber.
Farin sat at one of the long wooden tables, hunched over a stack of heavy tomes, his fingers buried in his hair. The mess of books around him told a story of desperation and frustration—some open, some slammed shut, others stacked precariously as if they'd been discarded in a fit of irritation.
His long, silver-white hair was a tangled mess, a clear sign he'd been at this for hours, and his delicate, light elven features were marred by a deep scowl.
"Fucking hells." He slapped the book shut with a resounding thud and shoved it aside, reaching for another.
