The following evening settled slowly over the mansion, as though the world itself was reluctant to let night fall. Dinner had been quiet. Lana picked at her food, too restless to eat, while Grey finished his glass of wine with a focus that seemed more like discipline than indulgence. Seraphine, as usual, said little. She finally gestured for them to follow her. The three of them moved into the library, where the fire burned low and the scent of old parchment lingered like memory. The curtains had been drawn against the storm still muttering outside, and the room was a cocoon of muted firelight and shadow. Seraphine walked to the heavy oak desk, setting her leather folio down with care. She did not sit. Instead, she remained standing, her back to the fire, her gaze moving between Grey and Lana. “You wanted details,” she said simply. “Tonight, you’ll have them.” Grey leaned against the mantel, his arms folded but his eyes sharp. Lana took the armchair nearest the desk, the l

The storm had not let up. Rain lashed against the mansion’s tall windows like restless fingers, rattling the frames, whispering threats. The fire in the hearth hissed every so often, as though uneasy in its own cradle. Grey led the way through the corridor with the lantern raised, its circle of light cutting faint swathes into the dark. Seraphine moved with the unhurried patience of someone who had walked these halls before. Lana trailed close behind, one hand pressed against the wall as though the stones themselves might anchor her if the floor gave way. They passed tapestries too aged to show their colors clearly, their patterns blurred into shadows. Dust hung in the air, stirred by their steps, thick enough to taste. Seraphine finally slowed near the end of the corridor, stopping before a narrow door of oak. The iron latch groaned when she touched it. “This room,” she murmured, her voice strangely measured, “was sealed for a reason.” Grey didn’t answer. He pushed past her and

The fire had burned low, reduced now to a quiet smolder that hissed and cracked when embers collapsed under their own weight. Shadows leaned long across the study walls, curling around the shelves and the old, heavy drapes. Neither Grey nor Lana had spoken in minutes, the silence stretching taut, yet not unbearable. It was the kind of silence that came after a decision—when words were no longer needed to mark a shift, only the slow drawing of breath and the steady thrum of what lay ahead.Lana sat in the armchair nearest the hearth, the locket clutched between her palms. Its faint warmth hadn’t left her skin since the conversation with Seraphine. She had thought the glow and the inscriptions were the mystery. She had thought this house, with its locked rooms and hidden corridors, was the battlefield. But Seraphine’s words still rang sharp in her ears: What lies beneath these walls may decide whether you stand a chance—or none at all.The truth wasn’t just about the locket. It was olde

The weight of the ledger lingered in Lana’s hands long after she closed it. Dust clung to her skin, but she couldn’t bring herself to brush it away. Her fingers trembled as though the parchment itself carried some charge, whispering truths she wasn’t ready to hear.Her throat ached. “All my life, I thought I knew where I came from. I thought…” She shook her head, unable to finish the thought.Grey leaned against the edge of the table, his jaw set but his eyes fixed on her. “You weren’t wrong to believe it. You believed what you were given. What you were told.”“Then why does it feel like none of it was mine?” Her voice cracked. “Not my name, not my choices, not even my childhood.”The silence stretched, heavy, until Seraphine stepped further into the room. The candle she carried burned low, wax dripping steadily down its side. Her expression, as ever, was unreadable.“You’re not wrong, Lana,” Seraphine said softly. “Some of it wasn’t yours.”Lana’s gaze snapped to her. “What do you me

The fire had burned low, leaving only a few orange embers crackling in the hearth. Grey hadn’t pressed her with questions, hadn’t pushed her to explain the shadows clinging to her face when she closed the ledger. He had simply drawn the curtains shut again, offered her the kind of silence that felt deliberate, not careless.It was a strange gift — space.Lana thought she should feel relief. Instead, it hollowed her out.When Grey finally excused himself, retreating down the hall with that steady stride of his, she lingered in the library. The heavy book still sat on the table, the dust it had coughed up earlier settled back into stillness. Its weight seemed to bend the air around it, like gravity itself leaned harder where the ledger lay.She couldn’t bear to touch it again. Not yet.Instead, she slipped out into the corridor. The mansion carried itself differently at night — too large, too silent, every corner brimming with echoes that weren’t there in daylight. The sconces glowed fa