Henry was a lean man, just past thirty, with sharp cheekbones and eyes that carried the weight of too many sleepless nights. His dark hair was swept back, streaked with premature gray from a life spent crawling through tombs and dodging traps that didn't care for scholarly curiosity. He wore a patched waistcoat, the kind a gentleman might've owned before it saw one too many sandstorms. Tonight, his focus was on a different prize: a scrap of parchment he'd been studying for weeks, its edges brittle and stained with age. Scrawled across it in a shaky hand were Latin words he'd translated a dozen times: Sub abysso, lux aurea aeterna. "Beneath the abyss, the golden light eternal." Below that, a crude sketch of a mountain range, jagged peaks like teeth, and a symbol he recognized from alchemical textsa circle pierced by a cross.
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