Lucian lets out a long, weary sigh, the icy tension in his shoulders finally dropping as he concedes to the collective pressure of the room. "My apologies, Young Lady Mirael," he says, his voice softening with rare humility. "Please, have a look. See if you can help us understand what these words might mean."
Mirael steals a quick, grateful glance at Kael and my brother before scrambling up into the oversized chair. She leans over the desk, her small hands bracing against the wood as she stares intently at the strange, scrawled characters on the parchment.
After a long moment of silence, she looks up, her expression unusually serious.
"Who made these words?" she asks softly.
