The sprawling, third-floor library is buried in heavy shadows, illuminated only by a single brass reading lamp on the polished mahogany table.
I am exhausted, my eyes burning from staring at the jagged, sweeping script of the ancient dialect for six uninterrupted hours. But I do not stop reading. Across the table, Davion is matching my frantic, academic pace, his amber eyes tracking the cross-referenced lineage charts we have scattered across the wood.
We have finally cracked the syntax of the third stanza.
I trace my pen under a heavy block of translated text. My analytical mind, usually a cold, protective barrier, stalls completely as the actual meaning of the words clicks into place.
I read the sentence again. The ink blurs.
"This isn't a biological mutation," I whisper into the qu
