The night air smelled of old books and damp earth, and a single candle burned beside a thick, ancient tome, illuminating the man who sat hunched over it. The one who had taken the tome of Vythrith had retreated to this hidden lair, far from the eyes of the world, but even in the isolation, he could feel the weight of urgency pressing down on him.
His long fingers traced the embossed lettering on the tome's cover, worn with age but still exuding an undeniable power. He had taken great risks to acquire it—braving witches' territory, striking dangerous deals, and leaving behind a trail of Ravenor's men. But the prize was his now, and yet, as he stared at it, he felt an unfamiliar knot of dread tightening in his chest.
