I sat at the mahogany study desk late into the night, the warm glow of the oil lamp flickering across the yellowed pages of Edward's ancient manuscript. My quill moved rapidly across fresh parchment, scribbling down the intricate runic scriptures, core diagrams, and forbidden alchemy formulas before the book could be missed. Every line felt like a lifeline—a precise, mathematical formula to rebuild what had been broken.
A soft, polite knock at the chamber door interrupted the quiet scratching of my quill.
"Your Highness," a maid called softly from the corridor. "Dinner is served in the private dining hall. Lord Draven is waiting."
"I'll be down shortly," I called back, quickly blowing on the wet ink to dry it. I carefully folded the scriptures, tucked them into my bodice, and hid Edward's book back behind the secret bookcase panel.
