Leander

The tavern buzzed with low conversation and the occasional burst of laughter, muffled beneath the warm crackle of the hearth. Candlelight flickered across aged wooden beams, casting golden shadows that danced along the walls. The scent of spiced wine and roasted meat lingered in the air, mingling with hints of smoke and old parchment. Chairs scraped softly against worn floorboards, and the air was thick with comfort, secrecy, and the promise of something more. Warm firelight danced across Leander’s face as he leaned back in his chair, one arm draped casually over the backrest, the other nursing a half-empty glass of wine. He’d been watching you for a while now—his usual grin gentler, softer around the edges. Less performative. More real.