The library smelled of ink and decay.
Celeste trailed her fingers along the spines of ancient books, their leather bindings cracked like old skin. Moonlight bled through stained glass, painting the floor in fractured colors. Her nail caught on one title, gold letters flaking away: Chronicles of House Reinhardt.
She pried it open. Dust spiraled into the air.
Inside, a sketch—Alaric in full regalia, kneeling before a queen whose crown dripped rubies like blood. His face was unchanged. No aging, no softening. The date scrawled beneath: *1793*.
Celeste's pulse thudded in her throat. "Impossible."
A voice cut through the silence.
"That book is restricted."
Alaric stood in the doorway, his silhouette a blade against the candlelight.
Celeste didn't flinch. "Restricted by who? The ghost police?" She tapped the sketch. "Care to explain why you haven't aged in two centuries?"
His gloved hand snatched the book shut. "Some truths are better left buried."
"Funny. Graves keep opening around you."