SPARK: YEAR OF THE DRAGON [placeholder name]

CHAPTER THREE

The manor sat perched between a riverbank and the main road, fashioned from ragged cobblestone and cedarwood. The structure stood tall and frigid, crooked by the time and its own weight. Its steep gabled roof sloped dramatically downwards. Strange wooden carvings adorned the underside. The manor had modest square windows on all floors. Colourful glass glazed the windows, casting a spellbinding kaleidoscope of colours, that danced across the room when touched by the dying light of day. Flowerbeds, with carefully arranged blossoms, decked each windowsill. Vine tendrils crept up the walls and snaked onto the roof, partially encapsulating the building in its earthly embrace.

The estate surrounded a cluster of hot springs, a bustling hub despite being on Elven land. Travellers frequented the inn, drawn by the charm of the bathhouse. While all creatures were welcome on Elven roads, humans were a rare sight due to the lasting impact of the thousand-year war. Only a select few, esteemed for their trade, art, or diplomacy, were permitted residence in Elven lands. As the spring equinox approached, the road leading past the bathhouse buzzed with activity, coinciding with the Week of Merchants—a festival honouring traders from across the realms. During this time, animosities were set aside as Elves and other beings alike welcomed all, including humans, to join in the festivities in the city of Runswick.

Sylvar sat in one of the manor's many rooms; a lantern lit up the windowsill with crimson. The curtains were drawn, forbidding any light from the outside into the room. The bed on which the young elf sat had a simple wooden frame. The pillow was soft; white linen sheets smelled of soap and cold water. A colourful blanket was thrown over the bed. It was made from several squares, each with a different colour and pattern. Warm, reddish colours dominated the palette, just like the rest of the room. The bedspread had golden tassels in each corner.

On the elf's right, perched on slender wooden legs, rested a petite bedside table. It boasted a lone drawer, embellished with an intricate iron handle. A pitcher, a bowl brimming with water, and a mirror adorned its surface. A moist towel, evidence of recent use, hung casually over one edge. Alongside the pitcher, a silver comb, a bar of soap, and a razor for shaving were neatly arranged. The flickering candle cast its warm glow, unveiling the contents of the table.

The wall facing Sylvar bore two windows, and between them stood a wooden desk paired with a chair. Every visible inch of the desk's shelves was crammed with journals, letters, maps, and assorted literature – a deliberate yet chaotic arrangement. An ornate open-shelved closet occupied the remaining free wall space, its shelves mirroring the cluttered yet organized abundance of the desk. On the desk itself, a leather-bound journal lay open beside a quill pen and a small jar of ink. The candlelight illuminated the still-drying ink on the journal's pages. Draped over an armchair was a fur fabric, crafted from the same material as the duvet. The short, grey fur suggested it likely belonged to a rabbit.

Across from the bedside table, a robust oak dresser commanded attention with its sturdy presence. Ornate iron handles graced its three drawers, while colourful linens adorned its surface. Atop it, Sylvar's armour stood proudly beside his meticulously arranged weapons, all bathed in the warm glow of a nearby candlestick.

Sylvar reclined on the bed, clad in a white undershirt and loose brown trousers. His feet were bare, and a light, colourful robe hung over his shoulders. With his long hair left down, having been recently brushed, he lacked the energy to tie it up or braid it. The young elf sat in silence one hand gripping the duvet. The other sat close to his chest, strung up by woven linen rope. His breathing was slow, and his bandaged chest heaved delicately. The encounter with the bloodsucker had inflicted more damage than Sylvar initially realized during the fight.

Gashes adorned his lower stomach, chest, and thigh. While those injuries healed well, leaving only nasty scabs as reminders, the wound on his left shoulder displayed a stubborn resistance to recovery. Lady Omaira managed to pop his shoulder back in, luckily it wasn't broken as the elf initially thought. Regardless of the Lady of the House's efforts, her concoctions, and herbal treatments, the bite wound persisted in a vexing cycle- closing and opening, occasionally gushing blood in the dead of night, only to scab over and repeat the process. It was a vicious bite that seemed adamant in its refusal to heal. Sylvar had secluded himself in his chamber for three days, adamantly avoiding the healer's aid. The solitude was a refuge he cherished, though the bustling activity beyond his door unnerved him. The manor, once home to over a dozen girls under Lady Omaira's care, had been a sanctuary for the orphaned and lost. Sylvar vividly recalled his own arrival, wide-eyed and disoriented, despite Pelleas's reassuring presence by his side.