From where he’s seated at his desk, quill in hand and dozens upon dozens of papers laid scattered around him, Silas swears the flames beckon him.
He’s always written by candlelight before - that is nothing new. From within his grand mansion of an apartment- or more like his self-inflicted prison, he privately laments - it is not uncommon for candles or all sorts to be used as the main light source. Unscented, seasonal, colored or even plain - Silas would gladly take them all.
...
