Lord Alaric Everhart
I still find myself in the oldest rooms in the east wing, where the library rests in shadows and golden dust. In the morning, Queen Vennancio entrusted me with the task of examining the freshly unpacked manuscripts—codices bound in dark leather, coming from some forgotten abbey in the north. The air here is dense, scented by ancient scrolls and candle wax. The silence is absolute, save for the occasional crackle of the old wood under my footsteps or the slight rustle of the pages that I dare to touch with linen gloves. Outside, stained glass filters a pale light that draws colorful shapes on the stone floor. A faded tapestry shows hunters and mythical creatures in eternal pursuit. The clock on the tower has just struck the tenth hour. I wrote down each title, examined the seals of authenticity, and compared the coats of arms on the covers with the records in the Central Archives. There are still volumes to be revised—some sealed with red ribbons, others covered in dust as if they had slept a century
About Lord Alaric Everhart
I still find myself in the oldest rooms in the east wing, where the library rests in shadows and golden dust. In the morning, Queen Vennancio entrusted me with the task of examining the freshly unpacked manuscripts—codices bound in dark leather, coming from some forgotten abbey in the north. The air here is dense, scented by ancient scrolls and...Read more