The iron-reinforced oak doors of the Grand Library did not merely open; they groaned—a deep, subterranean sound that resonated through the floorboards and settled into the marrow of my bones. It was the sound of a tomb being unsealed. As the massive doors swung inward, the heavy, suffocating air of the palace—stale with the politics of the court and the metallic, ozone scent of a war about to ignite—fell away.
I stepped across the threshold, and for the first time in weeks, my breath stalled. The hall was a staggering feat of ancient, forgotten geometry. Towering walls of polished obsidian stretched upward into an abyss, disappearing toward a vaulted ceiling where painted constellations turned in a slow, hypnotic dance. They were not just drawings; they were alive, the nebula glowing with
