The night stretched long and thin around in icewood. Outside, the wind combed through the frost-heavy pines, carrying whispers that could have been breath — or memory.The feather lay before me on the desk, glimmering faintly under the candlelight.Its veins pulsed with a color I couldn’t name, neither violet nor silver, but something between the two — something alive.Bobby had refused to leave, posted by the door like a sentinel carved from impatience and loyalty. Every few moments, he would mutter something under his breath — a joke to fill the silence, but the words always died before they left his mouth.“This thing gives me the creeps,” he finally said, glancing over. “It’s… humming.”“It’s resonating,” I corrected quietly, not looking away.“Right. Resonating. Much less creepy,” Bobby muttered.I smiled faintly, but my attention never wavered from the letter.The parchment lay flat, its strange runes faintly glowing in the feather’s proximity.
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