The air inside the hut thickened, heavy with the scent of burnt herbs and forgotten time. The carvings etched into the old wooden table flickered once, then dimmed, their light withdrawing as if consumed by the darkness that pooled in every corner.
Only one object resisted the encroaching shadow, a book, ancient and half-buried beneath decades of dust. Its faint, pulsing glow bathed the air in an eerie golden hue.
Something in that glow reached toward Ahce, unseen yet undeniable, like invisible threads of energy winding around her wrists, drawing her closer. She hesitated, her pulse quickening, but curiosity, or perhaps fate, guided her steps.
As her hand brushed away the dust, the cover beneath revealed itself. Cracked leather, scarred by time, its edges worn and brittle. At the center, a name glimmered in faded gold, a whisper from the past that made her breath hitch.
Archmage Devon Albert.
