The library was unusually warm for a Saturday morning.
Sunlight spilled in through the stained-glass windows, painting soft hues of amethyst and gold across the stone floor, and somewhere in the distance, I could hear the faint ticking of the old grandfather clock nestled between the astronomy section and the oversized armillary sphere no one dared touch. The air smelled faintly of beeswax polish and old ink, and the only real movement in the space—besides the occasional turn of a page—was the gentle swirl of dust that danced in the light.
I was supposed to be studying.
The book in front of me—Runic Inflection and Spell Preservation: An Annotated History—was cracked open, the spine bowed like it had been read and re-read for decades, and still, none of it made sense. My quill lay forgot
