Early morning sunlight filtered through the broken canopy, soft and golden, as Mikhailis stood atop the moss-stained terrace of the safehouse. The building was no inn, but a sprawling ancestral estate, converted into a diplomatic stronghold during crisis. Its creaking wood and ivy-laced columns gave it a worn charm, an air of history, and yet... comfort. He didn't know who it originally belonged to, but sothing about the place made his bones ache a little less.
A faint smile appeared as he looked around slowly. Everything here spoke of quiet dignity and faded nobility: worn stone balustrades, once ornate but now softened by years of weather and wear, ivy stubbornly winding its way up old columns, and intricately carved benches that bore the weight of countless whispered conversations and secrets lost to ti. Yet it was exactly this history, this gentle decay, that gave him an odd sense of belonging. He didn't know whose ghosts haunted these halls, but they seed welcoming enough.
His glasses shimred faintly, the lenses coming alive in response to his idle thoughts. A cascade of UI lights pulsed gently, a subtle dance of soft blues and whites.
"You always try," Mikhailis muttered softly, amused rather than annoyed.
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