The clock struck midnight, its chime echoing through the cluttered study of Jack Harper's old Boston home. A single lamp cast a dim, flickering glow over the room, illuminating shelves stuffed with dusty tomes, maps pinned to the walls, and a desk buried under papers. Jack sat hunched over that desk, his gloved hands cradling a fragile, yellowed manuscript. The air smelled of aged leather and mildew, a scent he'd grown to love over years of chasing history's ghosts.

The manuscript was a relic of the 14th century, or so the shady antique dealer had claimed when Jack paid a small fortune for it three weeks ago. Its sheepskin pages were brittle, the edges gnawed by time and insects, but the ink—black with a faint reddish hue—held firm. Latin script flowed in tight, disciplined lines, interrupted by cryptic symbols that didn't belong to any alphabet Jack recognized. He traced a finger over one such mark: a jagged spiral bisected by a cross. It felt alive under his touch, as if it pulsed with secrets.