In the quiet studio of the City Lord's Mansion, the scent of damp earth and ash hung in the air. A lone oil lamp flickered on the wooden desk, its golden light spreading across a worktable cluttered with pottery shards, carved stone, and half-dried blocks of mud.
At the center of it all, Mirean Moon sat hunched over a square of still-damp clay, her posture straight yet tense, her charcoal pen gliding slowly and deliberately across the surface. Each stroke carved out a mirrored character—precise, elegant, and reversed. Her wrist trembled slightly from the effort.
The sound of charcoal scratching against clay filled the small room. Outside, the muffled rhythm of the night—distant footsteps, the occasional call of a night bird—seemed to fade away entirely. Mirean was too focused to notice anything else.
During dinner two nights ago, Luciel had looked at her across the long table and said with his usual quiet certainty,
