Cruzer reached for the black tome, hesitating for just a fraction of a second before his fingers brushed against the cover. The moment he made contact, a chill crawled up his arm—not cold, not warmth either, but something else entirely. A pulling sensation, as if the book itself was aware of him. Elara noticed his hesitation. "
That's never a good sign." "Yeah," Cruzer muttered, gripping the tome firmly and pulling it from the shelf. The weight was heavier than it looked, and as he turned it over, the title—if there had ever been one—was long faded, leaving nothing but an empty cover.
Elara leaned in, peering over his shoulder. "Okay, I hate this already." Cruzer flipped it open, and the pages rustled in a way that felt… unnatural. Like they were whispering.
The text was written in an archaic script, but as he stared at the words, they rearranged themselves, shifting into something readable.
