The hushed silence of the ancient library pressed down on Makima like a velvet cloak. Moonlight bled through the high windows, casting long, skeletal shadows across the towering bookshelves. Dust motes danced in the silver beams, illuminated by the faint glow emanating from the book cradled in her lap. Its leather cover, worn smooth by time and countless hands, bore an inscription in a language long dead.

Dressed in a tailored black dress that seemed to absorb the moonlight, Makima devoured the text, her eyes scanning the archaic symbols with practiced ease. Her brow furrowed in concentration, not at the difficulty of the language, but at the cryptic message the text unraveled. It spoke of forgotten rituals, of pacts with entities beyond human comprehension, and of a power that could reshape the world itself.