[Silthara Palace—The Next Day—Imperial Library]
The Imperial Library opened its vast throat to the morning.
Bronze doors groaned apart, releasing the cool breath of dust, parchment, and age-old ink. Light filtered through high lattice windows, striking towering shelves carved from blackwood and stone, each tier stacked with tablets, scrolls, and bound volumes older than most dynasties.
This was not a place of learning alone.
It was a place of memory.
Zeramet moved through it slowly, long fingers trailing across spines etched with sigils and dead languages. His silver eyes scanned titles without truly seeing them, his mind already far ahead—turning, calculating, circling a single, dangerous thought.
Behind him, Naburash followed in measured silence.
For several heartbeats, only the soft echo of footsteps disturbed the stillness, then Naburash spoke.
"Malik," he said carefully, voice respectful but concerned, "perhaps I may assist. You have not slept. Your thoughts—"
