The library's air was cool, the walls steeped in centuries of secrets. Afternoon light spilled across rows of carved oak shelves, and the silence was so deep that even the faint turning of a page seemed loud enough to echo.
As Elowyn had commanded before lunch, Anneliese stepped into the hidden chamber—a sanctuary of forbidden knowledge. Gold-tinted light streamed through the stained-glass skylight, washing over the spines of countless leather-bound tomes. She had been here before, yet today the weight of what was buried within pressed differently, as though the very air resisted her presence.
At the far table, Elowyn waited. Scrolls and a thick hand-stitched book—her ancestor's work—lay open before her. Its pages bore curling sigils that shimmered faintly in the light. Elowyn did not look up at once. One long finger traced the page with reverence, or perhaps calculation, as if weighing each word before letting it breathe into the air.
