Your rest is not peaceful this night. Suddenly, without obvious reason, you are awoken from your slumber. Turning to your possessions on the ground behind you, the book begins to glow.

Not brightly—but enough to cut through the darkness like moonlight through fog. A pale blue-white aura hums softly around its edges, and the book—unmoved since camp was made—now lies open, pages spread wide to a place it should not be.

A new page. One you haven’t seen before.

Drawn across the parchment in impossibly fine detail is the image of a strange, overgrown ruin, half-swallowed by the forest. Graceful stonework, weathered with time, rises in arches and columns above tangled ivy. Faint shapes of ancient buildings can be seen through the haze, resting in quiet twilight beneath a canopy of towering trees.

And in elegant script below the image, a single name is written:
Ithil’vorel.

On the opposite page—text, in a language you don’t recognize. It's flowing, precise, and alive with strange structure. And then… it begins to move.

Before your eyes, the ink shifts.

The letters writhe like they’re waking from a long slumber. They shimmer faintly, crawl across the page, then slip down to the ground, trailing light across the floor.

The words drip to the floor like glowing fireflies and immediately start to move—crawling across the wooden floor, up the walls, out the window and across the back courtyard, and then—without hesitation—vanish into the night.

Gone.

When the light fades and the moment passes, the page lies still again. The image remains—a forested ruin, timeless and silent—but the writing on both pages is gone.