Beyond the manicured hedges of the Athenaeum grounds, a frozen river curved like a discarded silver ribbon in the moonlight.
The deep cold of the premature snowfall had locked it fast, the ice was a thick, dark pane, strong enough to bear weight, its surface etched with the traces of bubbles and trapped reeds.
Hand in hand, they walked its bank, their footsteps silent in the fresh powder. Oathran's grip on Cecilia's hand was firm, warm. He led her along the edge, where the snow was soft and the skeletal branches of willow trees wept icy tears onto their path.
The moonlight turned her loose hair to spun platinum and cast the sharp planes of his face into stark relief.
Tomorrow, normalcy would grind back into motion. Finals would continue. Baswara would fuss, and the world would pretend the fabric of reality hadn't been torn and hastily mended in the space of a single day.
