Azraiel quietly steps into the house, the soft glow of the desk lamp casting a warm circle of light over the cluttered table. The scent of old books and fresh ink hangs in the air. Charlotte and Katya sit hunched over a spread of aged, leather-bound journals, their brows furrowed in concentration. The pages are filled with cryptic language, symbols and characters that twist and curl in an almost hypnotic dance. Beside the journals, a notepad lies open, filled with hastily scribbled notes and tentative translations.
Katya's hair is pulled back into a messy bun, a few loose strands framing her intense expression. Her fingers trace the symbols delicately, as if afraid to smudge the ink. Charlotte leans closer to the pages, mouthing the unfamiliar words under her breath. A soft hum of concentration fills the room, punctuated only by the occasional scratch of a pen or the rustle of paper.
