The halls of Dawnhaven's citadel had never felt so cold.
The braziers burned bright, the air was thick with the perfume of incense, and yet Aelindria could not stop shivering.
She sat in the library, surrounded by piles of tomes scavenged from their ancestors' vaults.
Scrolls brittle with age lay unfurled across the marble table, ink faded and symbols half-lost to time.
None of it gave comfort. None of it made sense.
The silence was broken only by the turning of pages, the rasp of parchment under trembling fingers.
Malveris loomed nearby, muttering fragments of translation under his breath, while Sylene traced sigils with the tip of her nail as though hoping one might awaken and explain itself.
But nothing did.
Every passage they found on the Void was the same: a warning, a curse, a fragment of fear.
"Darkness without form."
"Paths unmade."
"The false echo of creation."
Always vague. Always forbidden.
