Tense Shoulders

Several days have passed since the usual studying routine took place. This day, they are in the library together. Elara still hasn't told Aiden about her trip to Starcoast; for some reason, Aiden has been pouring himself into books.

Elara watched Aiden from across the room, his shoulders tense as he pored over an ancient tome. The quill in his hand scratched at the parchment in short, jagged bursts—starkly contrasting the fluid script he usually penned with care. Each mention of Damian's upcoming visit seemed to draw a line of irritation across his brow, deepening with every word.

"Damian just recently showed me ways to have Mr. Pickles stay as my familiar," Elara ventured one evening, breaking the silence between them like a heavy shroud.

Aiden's hand stilled, the quill hovering mid-air. He didn't look up. "Did he now?" His voice was a clipped blade, sharp and cold.

She reached out, tentative, her fingers barely brushing his arm. "Aiden?"