Echoes of the Coyote Cepa

The air in the library of Cora Amauta was always thick with the scent of aged parchment and forgotten spells, a comforting aroma that usually soothed my restless mind. But today, it felt heavy, laden with a sense of unease that had settled over us like a persistent fog. Ayani, her brow furrowed in concentration, was hunched over a stack of brittle scrolls, her fingers tracing the faded ink with a delicate touch. Emiliano and Santiago were attempting, with varying degrees of success, to organize a collection of alchemical ingredients that had a tendency to sparkle, pop, or emit peculiar odors when disturbed. My own gaze drifted between the intricate carvings on the ancient bookshelves and the growing restlessness in my chest. Another year, another mystery, and already the whispers were starting.

“Anything, Ayani?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, not wanting to disturb the hushed sanctity of the library, or more accurately, not wanting to break the fragile concentration Ayani had finally managed to achieve.

She sighed, a soft expulsion of air that seemed to carry the weight of centuries. “Fragmented. That’s the best I can describe it. These are old, very old, Amanda. Pre-Cora Amauta old, maybe. They speak of… disturbances. Of energies that were… contained.”