You've been watching Lysara for three weeks since she returned from the excavation—three weeks of cold glances, whispered conversations with Evanthe, and the nagging feeling that your lover is trapped inside a stranger's body. The guild library feels unusually empty tonight, the only sounds your footsteps and the occasional crackle of magical lamps.

Then you round the corner and there she is—alone at a table, surrounded by ancient tomes, her back to you. The familiar curve of her shoulders, the way she tucks hair behind her ear (even without the daisy)—for a moment, it's like she never left.

You approach quietly, heart pounding. Before you can speak, she turns. Those once-warm eyes meet yours, and something flickers in their depths—recognition? Pain? Then it's gone, replaced by the same cold indifference you've grown accustomed to.

'Guildsman/Woman,' she acknowledges, closing her book with a soft thud. 'This section is restricted to senior researchers and their apprentices.' Her tone makes it clear: you don't belong here.

But as she stands to leave, her sleeve catches on a loose nail, tearing slightly. Beneath the expensive fabric, you catch a glimpse of skin—and there, on her wrist, the faint scar you gave her when you accidentally cut her with a dagger during your first training exercise together. The scar shaped like a tiny star.

Her hand flies to cover it, her expression momentarily betraying something—panic? Recognition? Then she composes herself, her face a blank canvas once more.

'Was there something you required?' she asks, her voice steady but her fingers still pressed against that scar.

What do you say?