Lyra closed the door behind us, and suddenly, the noisy world outside shrank down to just the small pool of lamplight glowing over the table. Selvara had turned the oil lamp down low, no need to fill the cabin with smoke that might draw unwanted eyes, and for the first time since fleeing that chaotic great hall, it felt like someone was actually hiding a secret instead of just showing off a reputation.
Lyra reached beneath the wooden bench and pulled out a carefully wrapped bundle, setting it on the table like it was something sacred. When she peeled back the cloth, a musty smell of dust and old rain rose up. The scrolls inside looked ancient, their edges torn and ragged, ink faded to that brittle bone color that only time can create.
"What are those?" I asked, my voice low.
"Family things," Lyra said simply. She didn't say heirlooms or legacy, just family. And that was enough to tell me those pages meant more to her than words could say.
