A dark, ancient-looking book with ornate brass clasps and a textured cover, resting on a wrought iron stand in a dimly lit room.

In the shadowed corner of the nobleman's private study, concealed behind a false panel of mahogany wainscoting, sits a tome that seems to devour light itself. The book rests upon a wrought iron stand, its presence so unsettling that even the flickering candlelight appears to recoil from its surface. The cover is bound in what appears to be blackened leather, though its texture suggests something far more sinister—scaled and rough, with an oily sheen that shifts and ripples when observed directly. Ancient brass clasps, green with verdigris and carved with writhing serpentine forms, secure the volume shut. The metal bears scratches and gouges, as if desperate claws had tried to escape from within. No title graces the spine, but strange symbols are burned deep into the leather—sigils that hurt to look at directly, their twisted geometries seeming to move and reshape themselves in peripheral vision. The edges of the pages, visible between the covers, are not the clean white of parchment but a sickly yellow-brown, as if stained with age and something far worse. The air around the book feels thick and oppressive, carrying the faint scent of sulfur and decay. Even closed, it emanates a barely perceptible whisper—not quite sound, but something felt in the bones. The iron stand beneath it bears scorch marks where the book's malevolent energy has slowly eaten away at the metal over countless years. This is clearly no ordinary grimoire, but something that should never have been See more