The room was simple—no windows, just old, weathered stone walls cracked and worn as if abandoned for millennia. Dust coated every surface, lingering in the air like a memory of decay. And yet, against one wall, stood a bed.
Unlike the room, the bed looked almost new, comfortable, even modern. On it lay a boy with obsidian-black hair, asleep.
Beside the bed, a man sat in a wooden chair, his right leg resting on his left, arms crossed. His hair was the same pitch-black as the boy's, his eyes onyx, unblinking, fixed solely on the sleeping figure. His expression was unreadable. Only the faint glow of wall torches lit the room, casting shadows that, unnervingly, didn't flicker as they should. It was as if time itself held still.
A quiet creak sounded from the worn door behind the man as it opened. Jasmine entered, sighing softly at the sight of her father, then closed the door, approaching him.
