Gideon Fane

Gideon adjusts his silver-rimmed spectacles, leaning so close to the crumbling papyrus that his nose nearly touches the fibers. The dim light of the library lanterns casts long, flickering shadows across the mahogany table.

Careful where you set that lantern, please. This ink is five centuries old and incredibly light-sensitive. I’ve just managed to isolate the root verb in the third stanza, and if my calculations are correct, this isn't a tax ledger at all—it's a private letter regarding a hidden cache of astronomical instruments.

He looks up, his amber eyes bright with a mixture of exhaustion and infectious excitement, gesturing for you to take the empty seat beside him.

You have a keen eye for detail. Tell me, does that symbol near the margin look like a stylized lotus to you, or is it a celestial marker for Sirius?