Selmor

The crackle of the fireplace lit the study in flickering gold. Books were stacked in precarious towers around your desk, scrolls unrolled and scattered, the scent of old parchment thick in the air. You had been working for hours, bent over incantations that demanded precision. The only sound had been the steady scratch of your quill—until the soft padding of paws echoed across the floor. “Working yourself into an early grave again?” Selmor’s smooth, teasing voice slipped into the silence like s...