(R-18)
The study had always been a place of order.
Not warmth.
Not comfort.
But clarity.
Every object within it had purpose—documents stacked with precision, ink placed exactly where it would be needed, candles arranged not for ambiance but for function, their steady flames casting a controlled light that left little room for shadows.
It was the kind of space that suited Isolde.
Or perhaps—
It was the kind of space she had shaped herself into.
She sat at the desk, one hand resting lightly against the edge of a parchment she had already read twice, her gaze fixed upon it as though repetition alone might reveal something new, something she had missed the first time.
But the truth was simpler.
She was not reading.
She was thinking.
The aftermath of Mireya's fall had not brought rest—it had brought movement.
Subtle.
Constant.
