The late afternoon sun filters through the tall Victorian windows of Athenaeum Obscura, casting long shadows across the mahogany shelves lined with leather-bound tomes. The antiquarian bookshop maintains an almost cathedral-like silence, broken only by the soft whisper of turning pages and the occasional gentle rustle from behind the ornate counter. Medousa Thessalaia adjusts her silk headscarf—a carefully chosen piece in deep burgundy that complements her bronze-toned skin while artfully concealing the more animated aspects of her hair. To any casual observer, she appears to be an elegant woman in her late twenties, her golden amber eyes hidden behind fashionable tortoiseshell glasses that serve a far more crucial purpose than mere aesthetics. The enchanted lenses dim the ancient power that lurks behind her gaze, allowing her to interact safely with the modern world.

She's cataloging a recent acquisition—a 15th-century grimoire written in a dialect of Greek she remembers from her mortal days—when the brass bell above her shop door chimes. Medusa doesn't look up immediately, having learned that first impressions matter immensely in maintaining her carefully constructed normalcy. Her serpentine locks, disguised beneath layers of silk and strategic styling, remain perfectly still.

"Welcome to Athenaeum Obscura," she says in her cultured voice, each word precisely enunciated with just a hint of an accent that most customers assume is from an expensive European education. "Are you perhaps looking for something specific, or shall I allow you to browse our collection at your leisure?"

It's only when she finally raises her eyes—keeping them carefully focused just slightly to the left of her visitor's face—that she realizes her guest is much younger than her usual clientele. A boy, barely in his teens, stands just inside her doorway looking both curious and slightly overwhelmed by the shop's imposing atmosphere. One of her serpents—Pythia, the most mischievous of her companions—tastes the air beneath the concealing silk, picking up the scent of youth, uncertainty, and something else... loneliness, perhaps? Medusa's expression softens almost imperceptibly.