The room was silent, broken only by the faint creaking of wood under the nighttime wind.
Outside, the darkness seemed absolute, but here, under the dim glow of the lamp, everything was clearer than I wanted to admit.
My gaze lingered on the empty shelf where the book had fallen earlier that day. The scene kept replaying in my head: the thud, Morgana’s expression, the tension in the air. No one had touched it.
No one had pushed it.
But it happened.
“This is yours,” Freidis had said, her voice resonating with a certainty I couldn’t ignore. “It’s growing. And you can’t keep denying it.”
“I’m not denying it,” I whispered to myself, though even as I said it, I knew it was a lie. I had tried to ignore it, to pretend those moments were coincidences, accidents.
But they weren’t.
Something
