Spring sunshine streamed through the tall library windows, casting golden paths across the polished oak floor. I smiled at the familiar sight of my grandson, young Alaric II, hunched over a massive tome, his dark brows furrowed in concentration. At seventeen, he was the spitting image of his namesake—my father—with the same intense focus and quiet determination.
"Still buried in those old chronicles?" I asked, approaching his table.
Alaric looked up, his serious expression softening. "Grandfather Lysander! I didn't hear you come in."
"Clearly." I settled into the chair across from him, my joints protesting slightly. At seventy-five, I was still hale enough, though the years had left their mark. "What has captured your attention so thoroughly today?"
He turned the book toward me. "The Chronicles of the Ophidian Pact. Not the public edition—the original family copy."
