Mundain turned the elven tome over in his hands, watching dust fall from its spine. The library around him held thousands of books, but this one promised what the others did not — formulas for binding consciousness to flesh that was not its own. He had read it before, centuries ago, when the words meant nothing. He descended into his dungeon with the tome under his arm. The stone chamber waited below, lit by lanterns that cast red light across walls marked with symbols. Tables lined the room, their surfaces stained dark. He set the book down and opened it to the page he needed. The elven script described a framework — a way to rewrite what lived inside a body without destroying the shell. He looked toward the iron door at the far end of the chamber, where the creature waited in its cell. Tonight he would test whether the ancients had understood what he was only now beginning to see. He traced the symbols from the page onto the floor with chalk mixed with blood. The pattern took shape slowly, circle within circle, each ring holding words in a language older than the elves themselves. When he finished, he stood and walked to the iron door. The creature inside did not move when he entered. It never did. He pressed his palm against its chest and felt the framework he had built years ago, still intact, still waiting. The elven magic would give him what he needed — a way to transfer what he was into something that could not die. He returned to the circles and began to speak the words. The air grew cold. Something in the dungeon changed, and he knew he had moved closer to becoming what he needed to be. But when the light faded, the creature still looked back at him with eyes that showed no recognition of what had been done. Mundain stood motionless, searching for the shift he expected to see. The framework held. The spell had worked. Yet the creature remained itself, unchanged in the one way that mattered. He lifted a vial from the table nearby, its glass surface glowing with captured essence from his other subjects. Those had broken easily, their souls drawn out like thread from cloth. This one resisted still. He set the vial down among the others that lined his workspace, each one holding what he had taken from lives that meant nothing to him. The tome had given him power, but the creature had given him something else — proof that his work was not yet complete.