The library of the Sol estate was a sanctuary of silence, broken only by the rhythmic scratching of a charcoal pencil against heavy parchment. Tall, arched windows let in the silver light of the moon, which played over the spines of thousands of leather-bound volumes. The air was thick with the scent of old paper and the faint, ozone-like tang of high-density mana that seemed to permeate every corner of the manor.
Vane stood hunched over the central table, his eyes fixed on a map that detailed the borderlands between the Aurelian Empire and the scorched territories of the East. He didn't look like a student anymore. The flickering candlelight caught the sharp angles of his face, casting long shadows that made him look older and far more dangerous. He moved the pencil with the precision of a surgeon, marking specific industrial hubs and natural mana-wells with small, cryptic symbols.
