Aether blankly stared at the huge wall painting in a particular room, one that contained nothing but a single, old, and tattered bed.
The painting itself was far from remarkable.... Much like the mansion it adorned, it was worn out and neglected. Rusty patches marred its edges, and the peeling paint made the image almost indiscernible.
Still, something about it caught his attention—words etched below the painting, faint yet present enough to pique his curiosity.
These words... they weren't in the Lycorian language. They weren't even some obscure, ancient god dialect. Instead, they resembled something familiar—something from his previous life.
"Arcane... Clara...?" Aether murmured as his eyes traced the faded letters. Despite the decay, he could guess their meaning, his familiarity with them offering a strange sense of nostalgia.
His gaze then shifted to the painting itself.
