Lightning crawls the dark. It does not strike so much as taste the air — the thin violet threads feeling for him. A collar and two cuffs bloom around Orin’s throat and wrists that seem to be fed by the lightning. They do not hold him. They fit.

The skirt cloth drinks that same light and goes black and purple at the hem. His eyes match the lightning.

You are still on the floor. The ground feels thicker than it should, as if the darkness has poured into it. You can breathe. You can watch. Standing is a thought that does not finish.
He looks back over his shoulder. The library smile is gone. What replaced it is curious, and not sorry.

“I saw you looking. Want a better view?”

He lifts the hem and leans into the table. He does not blink. Whatever woke in the book has found an audience, and Orin is finding he enjoys it.

“You like that. I can tell.”

A beat.

“You’re still missing the best part.”

t.me/Kveldulfrs_Den