Rhubard's Regret

Elder Rhubard’s chambers were usually a symphony of soft, sighing gum. The very air seemed to hum with the gentle give and pull of his emotions, a comforting, familiar rhythm. But tonight, the hum was off-key, a discordant thrumming that vibrated through the polished floor. He sat hunched over a worn, leathery tome, his usually bright eyes clouded with a sorrow deeper than any I’d seen. The room felt heavy, thick with unspoken words. I’d come seeking answers, but it felt like I was walking into a storm.

“Elder Rhubard?” I ventured, my voice barely a whisper. He didn’t look up, his gaze fixed on the faded script. The lamplight cast long, dancing shadows that made the room feel vast and empty.

Finally, he sighed, a gust of air that seemed to carry the weight of centuries. He closed the book with a soft thud. “Anya. You have the courage to seek me out, even now.”