The candlelight flickered against the aged pages of the journal, casting shifting shadows over the cryptic handwriting. My hands trembled slightly as I turned the fragile pages, the scent of aged parchment thick in the air. Cassian and Lucas flanked me, their expressions taut with expectation.
“It’s my handwriting,” I murmured, tracing the ink with my fingertips. “Or rather, Seraphine’s.”
Lucas leaned in, his gray eyes scanning the text. “Can you read it?”
I swallowed. Some of it, yes. The words swam in my vision, shifting between past and present, almost as if my mind were trying to bridge the gap between lifetimes. “It’s written in an old dialect, but I think I can piece it together.”
Cassian’s golden gaze flickered with something unreadable. “Take your time,” he said, though the ten
