"Isaac," someone whispered again, the voice carrying softly through the garden where sunlight streamed between the leaves like melted gold.
The young man stirred, half asleep beneath the old pear tree, his hair tousled and catching the light like threads of copper and wheat. His mismatched eyes— one blue as clear sky, the other green as a summer meadow— peeked open with lazy reluctance.
The castle around him bustled with life: the clang of cauldrons, the hum of spells, sorcerers gliding across marbled halls. But Isaac— unlike them— preferred the quiet company of the sun.
He stretched languidly, one arm flung over his eyes as if to shield them from the brilliance he secretly adored. The warmth kissed his skin, wrapping him in comfort, and he smiled faintly.
If anyone asked what he wanted from life, Isaac would answer without hesitation: to be warm, to be left alone, and to dream beneath the sunlight.
But that simplicity made him an oddity in the castle of sorcerers.
