Ares sat on the edge of the bed, the book resting open in his lap.
The lantern in the corner of the room burned low, casting long, flickering shadows against the wooden walls. Its dim light licked across the black, unmarked cover of the book as if the fire itself were hesitant to reveal its secrets. Ares flipped back to the first page, re-reading the sentence that had caught his attention at the merchant's stand.
"The other continent was nothing like depicted by our old books. It was not abandoned—"
He turned the page.
"It was thriving."
His brow twitched slightly. The text was written in tight, elegant script. Whoever penned this had done so with great care. The next paragraph described coastlines of blackened stone, scorched plains that shimmered under violet skies, and great cities built from obsidian and bone-white marble.
Ares frowned.
None of this matched the world he knew.
"They were not ruins. They were home. To people not so different, yet not quite the same."
