[Silthara Palace—Ancestral Hall —Continuation]
The moon hung high above Silthara Palace—white, round, perfect—its cold light spilling like fallen milk through the carved lattice windows of the Ancestral Hall.
The vast chamber breathed silence.
Only the faint murmur of turning scrolls and the soft hiss of oil lamps kept Levin company. He sat at the long central table—alone. Ink-stained parchments lay scattered around him, their ancient symbols shimmering like dried blood beneath the lantern glow.
Another ache twisted in his lower abdomen.
Sharp, sudden, and deep.
Levin's breath trembled—"Hh—…"—but he straightened his back, jaw tightening with stubborn resolve.
'I must endure… there is no other way.'
He dipped the quill again, but the words on the scroll blurred. Doubled. Tilted. His vision swam, and a cold sweat trickled down the curve of his spine.
Still—he tried to continue.
Still—he fought through the pain.
