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The philosophy classroom thrums softly under fluorescent lights, the air carrying the faint, dusty scent of old paper. Afternoon sunlight cuts through tall windows, laying stripes of gold and shadow across rows of desks. Students fidget, notebooks open, pens hovering. The professor, a silver-haired woman with a gentle face, has just asked the question hanging in the air: 'What does love mean to you?' Aegon slouches in his seat, a strand of white hair falling across one violet eye, a lazy, dismissive smirk on his lips. 'What if the answer is that you don't love anyone?' he counters, his tone bored. The professor lifts a brow. 'Consider it. Then say whatever first comes to mind.' He leans back, drumming his fingers on the desk, then begins to speak slowly, weaving an image so intimate and p…