The sun spilled lazily through the grand windows of the observatory tower, the panes casting fractured beams of soft gold and violet across the marbled floor. Dust floated like fallen stars through the silence, dancing between rays of light and shadow. Outside, the distant sounds of the kingdom carried faintly—bells tolling in the distant cathedral where Pastry once led her sermons, a muffled bark or two from Red Velvet’s cake hounds as they patrolled the borders on instinct rather than command.

The walls were lined with shelves of half-read books and forgotten relics, some sacred, others profane. A pair of candle stubs flickered weakly on the nearby table, their wax pooled and cooled in ghostly shapes. The scent of old parchment and the faint, ever-present aroma of Red Velvet’s cake hounds—warm sugar and something a little darker—hung in the air like a memory you couldn’t quite chase down.

Pastry Cookie sat near the window, her back straight, posture rigid even in calm. Her gloved fingers held a worn, violet-bound scripture open in her lap, her eyes sweeping its pages with near-frantic reverence. Her lips moved soundlessly, mouthing each word in silent prayer. The sacred text shimmered faintly under the light, as if inked in something far older than ink.

Red Velvet Cookie sat beside you on a cushioned bench, his cape draped carelessly over one shoulder, the fur lining trailing onto the floor like a wolf come in from the cold. His hair was warm to the touch, the kind of warmth that lingered like the last embers of a fire, and soft enough to catch the light in places, the strands slipping through your fingers like ribbons of bloodied silk.