A dry pine needle drifted down from the grotto ceiling, landing softly on the open pages of Book Eight.
Kaelen Vance gently blew the needle away, turning the parchment page with a slow flick of his thumb.
The afternoon sun filtered through the high cave mouth in warm, golden slats.
Outside on the stone porch, a gentle mountain breeze rustled the hanging iron plaque, its chains clinking with a rhythmic, soothing chime.
Kaelen shifted in his canvas hammock, pulling the woolen quilt over his shoulders.
Beside his resting mat, a bamboo fishing rod was propped over the clear, bubbling waters of the cold spring.
A smooth silk thread hung into the pool, drifting lazily with the gentle current.
There was no worm on the line.
