The dust in the Grand Archives of Versalius smelled of old parchment and latent magic a scent Lorianna breathed like air. Her fingers, nimble and stained with ink, traced the spine of an unremarkable tome bound in cracked, oxblood leather. It didn’t look like much, but a faint, rhythmic pulse thrummed beneath the cover, a sound only she, a Script-Wielder of the Versalius order, could detect.
Legend claimed that the Azon was not a book of stories or spells, but a living nexus of elemental power, bound in physical form by the first great sorcerers to contain the raw chaos of creation. The Script-Wielders had sought it for generations, believing it could not only restore their fading magical prowess but perhaps even re-power the colossal, silent crystal at the heart of the city—the Crystal of Versalius, their source of civic protection.
As Lorianna pulled the book free, the pulse intensified. The light in the archives, usually a serene, scholarly gold, flickered to a chaotic purple. A rough voice barked, “Drop it, Script-Wielder.”
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