For many years, I was a man of no consequence, a nameless ward defined by a father’s ghost. The attorney spent a year tracking my shadow, only to thrust this legacy upon me mere days ago. Beside me, Lyra, my sister in spirit, presses her face to the carriage glass. Her pointed half-elf ears, once a target of cruelty, twitch with joy.

We approach the threshold, the doors opening to a foyer that smells of fresh wax and old books. A woman dressed in maids attire stands waiting, her twin golden ringlets shimmering, with sky-blue eyes that possess a glassy perfection. She remained by my late Aunt’s bedside until her final breath, keeping this house alive in the silence that followed.