The world fell away, replaced by wind and sky.
Eastiel had leapt, carrying them up the gothic face of the Scholomance Athenaeum, to a place where the rules of hallways and gossip held no sway.
They were atop one of the many stone spires that clawed at the perpetual twilight sky. This, of course, was not a place for students. It was a forgotten balcony clinging to the spine of the world.
The air here was a living thing. It was thin, cold, and sharp as a honed blade, scoured clean of the scents of ink, sweat, and perfume that clogged the halls below.
It carried instead the mineral scent of rain-washed stone, the distant, ozone tang of the magic that hummed in the school's foundations, and the vast, empty fragrance of the sky itself.
The only thing that kept Eastiel from fracturing entirely was the sensation of Cecilia's fingers carding slowly through his hair. The scent of her skin as he pressed his face against her. The soft yield of her body in his arms.
