When the Lanterns Flickered Out

The relic sat heavy in my palm, its surface pulsing with an almost imperceptible energy, like the heartbeat of something long dormant but not dead. The runes etched into its surface flickered under the spectral lanterns, their ancient script shifting as if whispering in a tongue only the long-buried could understand.

Lorik's gaze remained fixed on it, his jaw tight, the weight of his thoughts pressing visibly against his expression. He was torn—between the scholar's insatiable thirst for knowledge and the instinctive dread that came with knowing too much.

"That's not something you should be holding, Draven," he murmured, voice taut with caution. "Not unless you're prepared to face what it means."

I tilted the relic slightly, letting the carved inscriptions catch the lantern light. "Then educate me, Lorik. You've had enough time playing the cryptic scholar."