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Chapter Sixty-One – The Inscriptions Unveiled
last update2025-09-20 17:34:32

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
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    Morning came softly, but not kindly. Light crept into the mansion like it had to fight its way through old dust and thicker shadows. The air smelled faintly of smoke, though the hearth had long gone cold. Lana stirred on the couch in the study, her body aching from sleep that hadn’t healed. Across from her, Grey leaned against the desk, arms folded, watching the empty fireplace as though waiting for something to rise from the ashes. She didn’t need to ask if he had slept. The dark beneath his eyes told her everything. The ledger still lay between them — closed now, but not forgotten. Every time her gaze brushed its worn leather spine, her stomach tightened. The night before had left her raw, her mind spinning with numbers and memories and the haunting mark of 47-R. Her number. Her past. Her proof that the life she’d lived wasn’t entirely her own. Outside, the wind pressed against the glass, rattling the edges of the old windowpanes. Somewhere in the mansion, a door creak

  • Chapter Seventy-Two – Morning Ashes

    Dawn came reluctantly.The sky outside Grey’s mansion bled pale silver through the high windows, light so thin it barely dared to touch the room. The fire in the grate had gone to ash, a bed of gray flecked with dying embers.Lana woke with her cheek pressed against the edge of the desk. The ledger sat closed beneath her hand, as if her body had refused to let go even in sleep.Her back ached. Her neck was stiff. But worse than either was the hollow ache of knowing she had spoken her fears aloud, let them seep into the silence where someone else could hear them.Her eyes cracked open.Grey sat not far away.He hadn’t taken the chair opposite, nor the one beside her, but instead had claimed the windowsill, one leg braced against the frame, arms crossed. The morning light carved his face in pale lines, sharpening every angle into something austere.She had half expected him to be gone — to have left her in that raw state, her secrets spilled like blood. But no. He had stayed.And worse:

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    The ledger weighed heavy beneath her palms, as though it held down more than just parchment. She pressed harder, as if force alone could smother the number scratched into its margins. But her arms trembled, her breath rasped, and her resolve thinned with every second she sat in the dark.The candle beside her had burned low. Its flame threw frantic shadows across the library walls, distorting the shelves into jagged teeth, the velvet drapes into figures leaning closer.She whispered again, unable to stop herself.“Elana Rey.”“Forty-seven R.”The words twisted together until they no longer sounded like language but like the hiss of some unseen serpent coiled inside the ledger.She didn’t hear the door creak.Grey’s footsteps were soundless — years of training honed into habit. He paused just inside the threshold, watching.From the doorway he saw her bent over the desk, her shoulders taut, her fingers clutching the edges of the book with white-knuckled desperation. The candlelight pai

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    The candle guttered low, spilling a wavering halo across the ledger’s brittle pages. Shadows leaned in from the corners of the library as if to watch, their silence thick enough to press against Lana’s skin.She couldn’t move. Not yet. Her eyes remained fixed on the margins where the numbers curled faint and merciless: 47R.The memory refused to let her breathe.The thin plastic biting her wrist. The cheap ink bleeding into pale skin. The girl with braids, tugging her own band with a scowl, telling her, “We’re just numbers here.”Lana’s stomach clenched so hard she had to grip the table to stay upright.Not here. Not now. She had spent years burying that place, smothering it until even the smells and sounds felt like fading dreams. But the ledger had dragged it back into the open, carving it into permanence. This wasn’t her imagination. The same number she once carried like a brand was now written in the margins of a book centuries older than her life.She snapped the ledger closed. T

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    The silence in the library pressed close, thicker than the dust that clung to the ledger’s pages. Lana sat motionless on the edge of the leather chair, her pulse loud in her ears, her mind refusing to settle. The words Seraphine had spoken still clung to the air like smoke: not coincidence… a marriage not for love, but for power.Her fingers curled tighter over the ledger as though she might crush it into something smaller, less terrifying. But she couldn’t. It was there in her hands, heavy with names, contracts, and an echo of decisions made years before she even had a voice.The faint crackle from the hearth should have been comforting, but it only seemed to draw her deeper into her own unrest.“Lana,” Grey said at last, his voice quiet but steady, as if he feared startling her.She looked up. His face was half in shadow, the fire painting sharp lines along his jaw. He was watching her carefully, not like she was fragile, but like she was holding a weight he couldn’t lift for her.S

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