The scene shifted once more, and before Liam's eyes, the hazy market of Lorr dissolved into the interior of a dim, cramped bookshop that looked as though it had been forgotten by time itself. Dust danced lazily in the thin shafts of light that pierced through cracks in the wooden roof, and the scent of parchment, candle wax, and mildew thickened the air. Shelves bowed under the weight of hundreds of books—some missing covers, others bound by fragile threads.
And there, seated by a flickering lantern, was the past Aesmirius. His figure was frail, his skin pale and sunken, yet his eyes were filled with a fierce determination that contradicted the frailty of his body. He was buried deep within an open tome, his trembling hands turning pages with obsessive precision.
