Primrose asked curiously, "What is that?"
Leofric pushed a sheet of paper toward her. "You can read it yourself."
She glanced down, her brow furrowing. The page was filled with strange sketches, akin to thin red threads twisting together, tangled with unfamiliar magical symbols she couldn't make sense of. Between the drawings were a few short lines of text.
The ink was faded, worn by time or maybe smeared by water long ago. But even if it had been perfectly clear, she doubted she'd understand a single word.
"Sir Leofric, I can't read this language," she admitted.
The words on the paper were likely written in an ancient language, one that had been forgotten by most, and only learned by mages during their academy training.
Since Primrose had never possessed magical energy in her body since she was little, she had never studied magic. Reading this language might be second nature to a mage, but to her, it was nothing but meaningless scribbles.
