<b>Airam, Freya, Pandora, and Dahlia stepped into Airam’s house, a stark contrast to the grand, imposing Thacher estate. It wasn’t humongous, but it exuded an air of understated elegance, a place that balanced luxury with warmth. The soft glow of antique sconces cast golden light against deep-colored walls, making the space feel lived-in, familiar, and safe.</b>


    <b>“I’m going to look for the book,” Airam announced, gesturing toward the living room. “You guys can wait there.”</b>


    <b>She barely heard their murmured agreement as she strode toward her mother’s library. It wasn’t a library in the traditional sense—no towering shelves or rolling ladders—but the room was lined with countless books, each carrying the faint scent of aged paper and history. Most of them were cookbooks, arranged with meticulous care, but Airam knew her mother kept fiction somewhere within the collection. Somewhere hidden.</b>


    <b>The search was slow and frustrating. She scanned shelf after shelf, pulling out books, flipping through pages, only to find nothing of use. Anxiety curled in her stomach as the number of unchecked shelves dwindled. What if she couldn’t find it? What if it wasn’t here at all?</b>


    <b>Her gaze landed on the last bookshelf. Unlike the others, something about it felt… off. Not in the way she usually sensed people’s auras—this was different, something older, deeper. As she stepped closer, a strange energy prickled against her skin. Then she saw them: faint markings, like flames burning in shades of violet, shifting against the wood.</b>


    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    <b>Her breath hitched. It had to be here.</b>


    <b>She reached out, fingertips brushing over the shelf’s surface. Maybe, just maybe, her powers could guide her. Closing her eyes, she focused on the book—its deep purple cover, the intricate gold illustrations that danced across its pages, the whispers of its stories she could still recall. A familiar tingling sensation spread through her hands, the same one she’d felt when she helped Dahlia ease the rain.</b>


    <b>Then—her fingers stopped.</b>


    <b>A surge of exhaustion hit her, the kind Dahlia had told her about. Magic took from you. It demanded. It drained. Airam exhaled shakily, pressing her palm against the spot her fingers had landed on. Slowly, she pulled out a book. But as her eyes flickered over the cover, disappointment sank in. Not the right one.</b>


    <b>“Damn it,” she muttered under her breath, sighing as she went to slide it back into place.</b>


    <b>That’s when she noticed it.</b>


    <b>The section of the shelf where the book had been looked wrong—not just out of place, but unnatural. Carefully, she pressed her fingers against the wood, testing it. It moved.</b>


    <b>A heartbeat of hesitation. Then she pushed.</b>


    <b>The wooden panel slid aside with a faint click, revealing the book she had been searching for.</b>


    <b>The Tales of Wisteria.</b>


    <b>Its violet cover gleamed under the dim light, waiting.</b>