The morning after the snow fight, the manor was encased in a fresh layer of frost that turned the windows into sheets of opaque crystal.
Inside, the fireplaces roared, the scent of burning pine and beeswax filling the corridors. Julian sat in the sun-drenched corner of the grand library, a room that had become his true sanctuary.
On the table before him lay a collection of parchment, ink pots, and a half-eaten plate of honey biscuits. Across from him, Lucius was hunched over a map of the Northern territories, his small brow furrowed in concentration as he traced the trade routes with a charcoal pencil.
Julian often noticed the way Lucius's nose crinkled when he was frustrated, and the specific way he tapped his slate when he had a question he felt was too silly to ask.
Lucius looked up, his pale eyes meeting Julian's. He didn't reach for his slate. Instead, he simply tilted his head, his gaze drifting to the window where the wind was whistling through the eaves.
