Lucian:
The storm rattled the stained-glass windows of the scriptorium, thunder cracking like a whip across the heavens. Lightning carved the vaulted ceiling in jagged veins of white, illuminating the shelves of cursed tomes and dust-choked grimoires in unnatural light. Each flash felt like it might set the parchment ablaze, and yet the books only seemed to hum darker, as if feeding on the chaos outside.
I leaned against the black-marble column, arms folded across my chest, watching Isadora tremble on the small oak nightstand. Her hands rested flat on the surface, white-knuckled, as if she were bracing herself against the world itself.
Her lips moved soundlessly, whispering some prayer that would never be answered.
The screams outside had been growing for hours—screams that didn’t belo
