Damon’s POV

“The scrolls are older than the stones,” the Priestess said.

Her voice didn’t rise or fall — it sank, heavy as something dropped into deep water.

We sat around the low council table, carved from the fortress’s heartwood. The brazier’s flame flickered over the brittle parchment, making the ink glow like dried blood. The Priestess set the final scroll down with a tenderness that made me feel suddenly clumsy, as if even my breath could shatter it.

“They tell what we ...