Genevieve's POV
The afternoon sun peeked through my window, moving slowly across the room. It was soft and golden, the kind of light that makes everything feel quiet. It hit the stone floor in long strips, warming up the old tapestries I'd brought from my home pack, Hollowcrown, many years ago. They were the only pieces of my old life I had left.
I sat alone at the wooden table. No maids were buzzing around, no guards were standing by the door. It was just me and the magic book.
The book was old, older than the stone walls of this packhouse. Its cover was black and as smooth as glass, cold to the touch even on the hottest day. On the front, there was an etching that resembled a mirror, but it didn't display a reflection. It looked more like someone had pressed their hand into the surface a long time ago and the mark had stayed there forever. A permanent memory of a touch.
