“You always prefer to be right,” he replied, his mouth curving slightly.
His hand found mine briefly before settling at the small of my back, guiding me forward with him as we crossed the room.
The man rose to meet us.
Up close, I could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes. He felt steadier than he had across the room. Not imposing or frail but grounded. His shoulders slightly stooped from years bent over pages rather than battlefields. His hands were long fingered and delicate, the kind that turned pages gently.
When he stepped nearer, I caught the faint scent of old paper and cedar oil. Beneath it something warmer, clean linen andworn leather. It stirred something distant and unexpected in me, a memory of evenings spent at a broad wooden table, my father’s voice low and steady as he read aloud long after the candles should have burned out.
The familiarity of it unsettled me more than comforted me.
He regarded Atlas first, the assessment brief and familiar.
“You took your time,” he said.
“Renoir,” Atlas said softly. “This is Caelira.”
The man’s gaze shifted fully to me.
He did not rush it. His eyes moved over me once, not measuring, just taking stock. Assessing presence rather than posture.
For a brief moment, he said nothing.
Then something in his expression changed.
A smile spread across his face, not restrained but genuine. Broad enough to crease the corners of his eyes and soften the lines of age.
“Well,” he said at last, as though pleased by something only he understood. “It’s about time.”
The warmth in it caught me off guard.
Without meaning to I felt the edge in my shoulders ease a fraction. I glanced at Atlas, catching the faint lift of his brow as if he already knew what I was about to say.
“I assumed he preferred to delay things,” I replied with a soft chuckle. “It seems to be the pattern.”
Atlas let out a small soft laugh, one I had never heard from him before. “I bring you here once and I’m already slandered.”
Renoir’s smile widened.
“He has always believed,” Renoir said dryly, “that inevitabilities improve with delay.”
I turned toward Atlas, feigning thoughtlessness. “Do they?”
“No” he said. His lip twitching up like he was trying to refrain from smiling.
Renoir regarded him with faint satisfaction. “They rarely do.”
The smile lingered a moment longer before his gaze shifted between us.
“You didn’t come to reminisce,” he said gently.
“No,” Atlas replied.
Renoir inclined his head. “Then tell me what has brought you here.”
Atlas glanced to me, there was no urgency in it, just a quiet understanding that this belonged to me. His hand slipped from my back to give me space.
I reached into the inner fold of my cloak, the braided thread cool against my palm as I drew it free. The black and silver wound so tightly together they appeared almost singular until the light caught them and separated the colors.
