The air in the library, usually so thick with the comforting scent of old parchment and beeswax, suddenly felt too thin to breathe.
Julian refused to neglect his duties as a tutor, but even so, he could not concentrate.
It was the morning after his supposed miracle, so his mind was still a bit out of it.
He had been staring blankly at a page of historical trade routes, his mind miles away on the thought of the Holy Empire, when the frantic tapping of a slate on wood snapped him back.
Lucius was standing beside him, his small chest heaving with excitement.
He had watched from the window—he had seen the light, the melting snow, and the way the dying child had stood up.
To a child who did not exactly understand the politics behind all of it, it was all exciting and beautiful.
He began waving his hands, mimicking the 'rising' of the light, his eyes wide as he scribbled furiously on his slate: [YOU WERE GLOWING, MASTER! Did you see? It was as if the sun came into the yard!]
