The door creaks open into the vast, echoing quiet of Salantrey’s west wing library. Scrolls rustle faintly in the torchlit stillness. She walks a step ahead of me, barefoot as always, with a stack of half-deciphered texts tucked under one arm and a deep scowl under her breath.

I remember my mother’s voice. She said, “Corinthio, clean hands mean a clean heart. And clean hearts don’t turn bitter, even when the world does.” I try. Every day, I try.