The library of Versimoil breathed with a sacred quiet. Even the air felt devoted—thick with the scent of scrolls and time. Evening sunlight slanted through the arched windows, catching dust motes that drifted like golden ash across the spines of ancient books. The high shelves rose like walls of memory—centuries of knowledge bound in leather, sealed in ink, waiting to be remembered.
At the far end of the long table, Elowyn leaned over an open tome, her fingers tracing the brittle edge of a page so old the script had begun to fade. A dozen other books lay scattered before her, some half-open, others weighed down with polished stones to keep the curling parchment flat. A candleholder stood beside her, its three unlit candles pooled in frozen ivory wax.
"This one's been rewritten," she murmured, not looking up. Her voice was quiet, yet carried the edge of conviction. "Here—see the change in ink? This is not the same scribe."
