I leaned over the stone table to sit, the pale golden light from the aligned runes illuminating the jagged, ancient script carved into the obsidian scroll.
My eyes darted across the text, the language flowing into my mind with a strange, instinctual ease that shouldn't have belonged to a beastman noble.
Morrigan, though likely to be a schemer, hadn't sabotaged anything. She wasn't a traitor—she was just part of a generation of demons who had grown too proud, forgetting how to look back at their own foundations.
So, there was no plan for a grand reveal of a villain among villains. Too bad.
The demons had treated the Spire like an unyielding fortress, forgetting that the ground beneath it was alive. And hungry.
"According to this," I murmured, my finger tracing a sharp geometric character, "the blight isn't a disease. It's a drought. The soil is starved."
