The private archives beneath the western wing of the castle were quiet and cold, smelling of dried ink, animal glue, and stone dust.
Commander Caleb set a heavy iron oil lamp onto the wide oak reading table, illuminating three massive volumes bound in cracked black leather. Dust motes swirled in the amber glow as Elena turned the yellowed vellum pages with delicate, deliberate care.
Sitting on a low stool beside the bookshelf, Jaxon was fast asleep with his head resting on Caleb’s folded wool cloak, his fingers lightly curled around his small wooden wolf.
Max stood opposite the table, leaning his hands flat against the wood, his eyes dark with tension as he watched Elena trace the faded calligraphy of the Fourth Era.
"The Sacred Ridge is not an ordinary hunting ground, Elena," Max said
