Kyrian's fingers remained on the worn cover of that thin book for several seconds.
The leather was rough beneath his fingertips, dry, cracked, with tiny fissures spreading across the surface like spiderwebs, creating irregular patterns that seemed to tell the story of decades of neglect.
The weight was almost nonexistent, so light that it felt as though the pages had disappeared with time, consumed by years of oblivion.
Silence dominated the small courtyard.
Outside, the Caravan of Heaven remained alive, the distant sounds of voices, carts, and markets arriving as a muffled murmur, as though they came from another world.
The laughter, the negotiations, the constant noise of the wandering city, all of it seemed distant, as though it belonged to a reality that no longer touched him.
But all of that felt far away.
His attention was focused on a single sentence.
'Look at yourself.'
Kyrian rose from the chair.
