Scriptorium

The scriptorium hums with motion and light. Quills scratch across parchment, ink glimmers like molten silver, and shelves rise high with scrolls that whisper softly as they settle. Every desk is taken, every surface alive with work. Near the entrance, a Metal Fae pauses long enough to glance up from a stack of ledgers, eyes sharp as polished steel. The look he gives you is unmistakable, a silent command to turn around and leave him to his precision.