The night draped over Ingrid's room like a heavy velvet cloak, the only illumination emanating from the flickering flames of the fireplace. The dancing firelight cast shifting shadows across the walls, painting the room in hues of gold and amber.
Ingrid sat at the edge of her bed, her long silver hair cascading down her back as she methodically ran a comb through its silky strands. With each stroke, she felt a sense of calm wash over her, the rhythmic motion soothing her troubled thoughts.
Across the room, Christine stood vigilantly by the balcony door, her posture rigid and alert. The dim light revealed the stern lines on her face. Ingrid couldn't help but think that she looked like one of the statues at the Grand Library.
"Christine... you look rather scary standing there," Ingrid teased, a playful glint in her cerulean eyes as she glanced up from her task.
