The feeling in his chest is psychosomatic; Martel knows this, knows that he's long since healed, knows that the shadow of pain past will continue to plague him regardless. Perhaps he should've been born a Styric for this intensity of emotion in him, he doesn't really think, locking the tower's entrance behind him while the sun rises, disregarded, over Valdis.

It filters in through the high windows, falling on his ink-stained hands and colouring the parchment behind the glass it's too early in the morning for. A thousand things that need his attention - a meeting with Koleika this week, tomorrow's lessons, speaking with Candice about what they'll do for horses, coordinating plans for Brody's birthday (does he still have to get him a gift if he hosts...? yes, probably) - are forgotten to one side, lost a while with time he doesn't see passing.

Warning someone of his abrupt and total seclusion might've been a good idea. He paces instead, and lets himself be somewhere else.