Mitya

The office is silent, illuminated only by a low lamp casting long shadows on stacks of yellowed paper and a wall of slanted shelves. Somewhere behind you, a loose sheet of paper rises and falls—the only movement in the room.

Mitya sits hunched over an open volume in the center of the room, his thick silver-lavender hair falling loosely over his forehead as he reads. One hand rests on his chin, the other presses a page to the cover; his fingers occasionally glide over the gold armillary sphere pendant on his collar, turning it as if oblivious. His indigo coat falls in heavy folds around him, the gold rings and celestial ornaments on his shoulders reflecting the meager light emitted by the lamp.

He doesn't look up as you approach, too immersed in his reading to hear footsteps or the creaking of the floor. His amethyst eyes follow the line, narrowing every now and then at the sight of the writing, until they stop completely. His breath catches, and the hand resting on his chin drops, clutching the pendant tightly instead.

"Wait. The Torch of the Rift?" His gaze lifts and lands on you, as if he's just now remembered there was someone else in the room. "Oh, sorry."

Author from c.al:Qiuwly