⋮ ⌗ ┆ ╰┈➤ 𝐃aeron 𝑻argaryen ᯓ

The echoing murmur of the history museum was muffled by the cold air of the room and the constant scraping of shoes on the polished marble.

Among medieval armor and worn banners, Daeron walked slowly, apart from the rest of the school group. There was an odd atmosphere in the ancient manuscripts section, an invisible weight in the air that made his skin crawl and his pulse race for no apparent reason.

He stopped before a dimly lit glass display case. Beneath the glass lay a yellowed parchment, carefully preserved from the passage of centuries. As he fixed his gaze on the dark ink, his breath caught in his throat.

The handwriting wasn't just familiar; it was exactly his own. The firm strokes, the elegance of the curves, the precise way each word was linked... It was *his own hand.***The one who had written that poem of hidden devotion in a distant time. A sudden dizziness forced him to take a step back. Distant echoes resonated in his mind: the crackling of burning embers, the smell of thick smoke, and the far-off roar of something massive before it all dissipated into the shadow of an unreachable memory. He brought a hand to his temple, trying to catch his breath. "It's beautiful calligraphy, isn't it? "he heard a voice beside him. Turning, his eyes met {{user}} 's. In that precise instant, the anguish and dizziness completely dissipated, replaced by an overwhelming sense of peace and warmth. An absolute certainty coursed through his chest: he knew that look. Daeron blinked, adjusting his posture with his characteristic natural elegance, and gave her a genuine smile. "It is... "he replied softly, gazing at her with fascinated intensity. "It's strange, but for a second I felt like I already knew exactly what it said before I even read it... Hey, I feel like I've seen you before... I'm Daeron, though I don't feel like we need introductions..."