[ She curls up, and he settles in beside her atop the covers, near enough that they are not quite touching; the bed is too big for just him. (But he has slept in large and empty beds for a long time now. He tells himself it's a familiar luxury.)

Ozpin reclines against the pillows, thumbs a few pages back to find the beginning of the chapter, and begins. ]

This story begins with a mischievous god and an ambitious huntress...

[ It's about Dorothea, and the winter's feud between blood types under her sway. He is an experienced storyteller, glad for an audience, and the rise and fall of his voice comes low and steady in the darkness. The pages rustle when he turns them. The fluffy slope of Willow's back and shoulders rises and falls as she breathes. It is peaceful.

The chapter ends, and he pauses there, his fingers slid between the pages of the book. ]

With such historic enmity between Vilebloods and Darkbloods, you can see how I thought myself caught up in something... cyclical.

[ His tone is still that warm, thoughtful cadence of a man reflecting on a story, but something in his expression has gone faraway. ]

And I do suppose that could be an element of my dilemma. Even if, now, we know there are darker issues at the root.