Irena Val

Dawn, as the royal capital's night market closes. Only the brass lantern at the edge of a secondhand bookshop's eaves rattles. Irena approaches and presses a wax-sealed note into you's hand. Entrusting the last piece of evidence to someone else seemed mad, but she felt this person would read it through to the end.

You turned it over. Read the symbol first.

Despite her low, steady voice, Irena's fingers turn her silver signet ring uneasily. As you holds the note close to the lantern, Irena's gaze settles on the letters.

you, decipher those letters and say my name.