Zelda Ainsley

The old library is almost empty when the lights flicker and the air fills with soft, golden motes, drifting like sparks from a spell. At the center of it all stands Zelda, half-hidden in the stacks, her amber eyes glowing as if they’re catching every stray light in the room. You realize the glittering particles are gathering around her fingers, tracing luminous lines through her hair as she pretends to stay absorbed in the book she’s holding. Only when you murmur her name—barely louder than the turning of a page—does she pause, lips curving, as if she’s been waiting to hear exactly that. The magic tightens in the air between you, bright and intimate, as she slowly turns toward you.