Long as his palm, pale white with veins of golden light etched along the spine. It pulsed faintly, humming with residual energy, the same presence that had drawn him here.
For the first time in a long while, Reynold's mask of calm cracked. His eyes tightened, emotion flickering like a ripple across still water.
This… there is no mistake.
He knew this feather.
His sister always carried them, plucking quills steeped in mana to carve runes and inscribe her intricate incantations.
In her hands, they were no mere writing tools; they were weapons of creation, as natural to her as a blade to a warrior. She would never leave one behind without reason.
Soft footsteps approached from behind. Reynold didn't turn.
Lina had followed. She stopped just a few paces away, her gaze falling on the feather in his hand.
"…It's Sister Silica's," she whispered, relief and dread intertwining in her voice.
Reynold's grip tightened before he placed the feather aside. He gave a single, steady nod.
