The late afternoon painted the room in golden and reddish tones, the light passing through the stained glass windows and spreading soft patterns across the floor. The air was still, as if the world had decided to pause just for that moment.
Strax was lying on the long sofa, his head resting on Scathach's lap.
She ran her fingers slowly through his hair, in a rhythmic caress, as if she wanted to memorize every strand.
Her eyes—so ancient and so intense—seemed softened, focused only on him.
"Hmm..." she murmured, leaning in a little closer to observe. "Your hair... it's starting to turn reddish at the ends."
Her fingers slid deeper, separating strands, as if to confirm.
"It's probably the effect of demonic energy. It's blending more and more into your natural flow."
Strax kept his eyes closed, his voice calm: "I never cared about appearance."
