The playwright Harry Nidouhi received Lucen's script for his play. He quickly started reading the script, and his first impression of it was that it was an incredible piece.
It was not a myth, a historical story, or one of the bard's songs; it was something truly new. It was like those novels that were popular a few decades ago.
Harry's eyes were focused as he raced down the page. Each line struck him with a clarity he had not felt in years.
His pulse quickened, the way it had when he first snuck into a theater as a boy and saw the stage come alive. His fingers trembled slightly as he turned each page, ink smudges clinging faintly to his skin.
This was not the distant echo of heroes long dead, nor the polished flattery nobles demanded. This was raw lightning captured in words. For the first time in years, he felt as though a script had seized him by the throat and refused to let go.
