I stare at the medallion, my fingers tracing the intricate engravings. The figure etched into the metal bears my exact features. Not similar. Not reminiscent. Identical.
"This is impossible," I murmur, turning the medallion toward the light. "When was this made?"
"One hundred and three years ago," Jasper says quietly. "By my great-grandfather."
I set the medallion down carefully. "Your great-grandfather?"
"Jasper Finch the First. He was... gifted. Some called him a prophet. Others thought he was mad." Jasper's voice carries the weight of family history. "He spent his final years creating this medallion and documenting a very specific prophecy."
My jaw tightens. "What prophecy?"
Jasper reaches into his jacket again, withdrawing a leather-bound journal. The pages are yellowed with age, the binding cracked from decades of handling.
