The light of the palace library was soft, filtered through high stained-glass windows that painted the marble floor in hues of violet and gold. The air was thick with dust and ink, the kind of silence that pressed down like velvet, heavy but sacred. The shelves stretched endlessly upward, filled with volumes that carried the weight of centuries.
Zero sat at the long oak table beside Lilith, the Chronicle of Edolas spread wide before them. Its leather binding groaned with age, and its pages smelled faintly of smoke and old parchment—as though the past had been scorched into it. The script was dark, etched in a hand so precise it seemed to still breathe with intent.
The silence between them was not uncomfortable—Lilith's presence never was—but it was laden with unspoken weight. The tale they had just finished lingered like a phantom in the room. Aamon. The prophecy of blood and spirit. The gem forged to seek out the chosen. A fate written long before their time.
