The sigil Valen had retrieved from the fallen assailant lay on his desk, catching glimmers of the faint morning light filtering into his quarters. It was intricate, every line and swirl etched with deliberate care—a design as old as it was foreboding. He traced its edges, feeling a slight hum of energy radiating from it, as though it held memories long forgotten by time.
To his side, Alaric examined the sigil with a wary expression. "You know what this symbol is, don't you?" Alaric asked, his voice a murmur barely louder than a whisper.
Valen gave a slight nod, his gaze unwavering. "I know it's not simply some family crest or academy mark. What is it, Alaric?"
