XXXVIII
I settle into my old college bedroom like someone returning to a past life that never expected me back.
The room is smaller than I remember. The college posters were long gone, the bookshelf half‑empty, the comforter faded from years of sunlight. But it's safe. It's familiar. And most importantly, it's not the master bedroom where my great‑aunt died. I can't bring myself to cross that threshold yet. The thought of lying in her bed, in the space where her last breath left her body, makes my skin crawl. The mirror that took her soul still reflected at the foot. The trauma had internalized. My tired mind wandered.
I curled up here instead, wrapped in the faint scent of old textbooks and laundry detergent. The mansion creaks around me, settling into the night. Every sound feels amplified. I hear the tick of the hallway clock, the distant hum of the furnace, the soft groan of old pipes shifting in the walls. The mirrors in the parlor and hallways reflect flashes of lightning as a storm rolls in, turning the house into a flickering labyrinth of silver. I shiver.
A sudden chill sweeps through the room, brushing over my thin arms and settling into my bones. The end‑of‑summer thunderstorm arrives with no subtlety. Fat rivulets of rain slamming against the windows, wind rattling the shutters, thunder cracking so sharply it vibrates the floorboards. The storm feels too close. The thoughts of the roof being washed away and drowning me materializes in my head.
I pull the blanket tighter around me, listening to the rain hammer the mansion's old roof. The house is mine now. I was responsible for every room, every mirror, every secret tucked into the library shelves. I could preserve it exactly as she left it, a museum to her strange brilliance. Or I could renovate it, strip away the velvet and dust, to make it something new. It's all mine. The thought is both comforting and terrifying.
Lightning flashes again, illuminating the hallway through the cracked bedroom door. For a moment, I swear I see movement. A shadow shifting in one of the mirrors, hidden in the edge of a frame. The air fills with tension, the thunderstorm prickling my skin as the pressure drops. When I blink, it's gone.
Only the storm remains, roaring against the windows as I lie awake in the dark, wondering what exactly I've inherited… and whether the house is as empty as everyone believes.
The morning feels reborn. Rain has washed the world clean, leaving the air sharp and bright with the first hints of fall. I shiver with that cool, leaf‑tinged freshness that always makes the woods feel a little more alive than they should be. My legs are still stiff, but I need the air, the quiet, the space away from the mansion's mirrors and the weight of inheritance. So I took a walk.
The path behind the mansion winds into the woods, a narrow ribbon of damp earth and fallen leaves. The trees drip with last night's storm, each drop catching the sunlight like tiny crystals. My breath fogs faintly in the cool air. The world feels awake in a way I'm not yet.
I move slowly, careful of my still‑weak muscles, but the woods welcome me. Birds call overhead. The scent of wet bark and moss rises around me. For a moment, I almost feel normal. Maybe wandering in the woods would provide clarity.
Then something shifts. A flicker in the corner of my eye. It's too tall to be a deer, buts it's moves too fluid to be a person. I stopped for a moment. The woods go quiet, as if holding their breath.
Between two trees, something flits through the shadows. The shape in a vague human for its limbs are long, slender, almost graceful, slipping behind a trunk before I could fully see it. My heart jumps, but not in fear. In recognition. It moves again, slipping closer to me, but also avoiding being seen. Tall, willow‑like, its silhouette bending with an unnatural elegance. Not hunched. Not lumbering. Tall. And quick. A ripple of shadow that disappears the moment I try to focus on it.
It feels familiar like some monster, not from this world, but from the mirror‑sky. It could be from the ship, or from the places my soul wandered while my body slept. A presence that doesn't belong in these woods yet somehow fits perfectly among the dripping branches. The creature peeks again. A long limb. A tilt of its head. A shimmer, like light bending around it. The woods are silent.
I stand there, trembling slightly, unsure whether my recovering body is hallucinating… or whether something followed me back from the other side of the mirrors. Either way, the shape is real enough to make the hair on my arms rise. And it's watching me.
He steps out of the shadows with a grace that makes the entire forest seem to lean toward him. He bows, bending half of his body to me.
"I'm sorry to frighten you, young woman."
The voice is warm, lilting, touched with an accent that doesn't belong to this country, or this century. He emerges fully into the path with one step. His form is tall, willow‑slender, yet unmistakably human in shape.
I stepped back in surprise. He wears thigh‑high brown leather boots, polished but weathered, and knit trousers tucked neatly into them. His shirt is a soft cream linen, laced at the chest, and over it a long forest‑green coat with embroidery that looks hand‑stitched. The entire outfit feels lifted straight out of Regency England, yet somehow more ancient, wilder.
His ears are gently pointed, the tips soft and elegant. Wind tossed hair falls in silvery‑white, nearly colorless blonde waves shimmering down his back, catching the morning light like strands of moon. An almond shaped face is clean, sharp, almost ethereal. High cheekbones sculpted, jaw smooth, lips soft. Handsome. It's his eyes that hold me to silence. Phoenix‑like, swirling hazel brown and green, alive with something old and bright. They study me with curiosity, not threat. It's as if he's trying to decide whether I'm owed an explanation.
He steps closer, the movement fluid, almost floating.
"I didn't expect anyone to walk this path so early," he says, voice gentle. "The storm kept most inside."
I swallow my legs trembling from both weakness and shock. He notices, tilting his head slightly, willow‑graceful.
"You're recovering," he murmurs. "Your body is still remembering itself."
The woods seem to hush around him. Even the birds quiet.
He looks like a forest elf stepped out of a forgotten tale. Form tall, lithe, ancient, yet dressed in the remnants of a human century. A creature who doesn't quite belong in this world yet stands here as if he's always walked in these woods.
He offers a small, polite bow. His spine straight and perfect, regal.
"My name is Lorian Eustace Van Walburg, a cousin of your great aunt's husband." he says in a soft Austrian accent. "I've been waiting for you to wake." The breeze stirs, carrying the scent of rain and leaves. Suddenly, the woods don't feel empty at all.
He steps closer, boots sinking slightly into the damp earth, and the morning light catches in his silvery hair as he explains himself. His voice was deep, but cool and calm, courteous, as if this meeting were something he'd rehearsed.
"I was notified of Olivia's passing," he says, voice low and warm. "Your great‑aunt and I had… an arrangement. When she died, her lawyers contacted me immediately."
The name Olivia hits with a soft ache. Hearing someone else speak it. He was someone who clearly knew her well. It made the woods feel suddenly smaller.
Lorian folds his hands behind his back, posture straight and elegant, like someone raised in a world where manners were currency.
"We wrote letters she and I, for a handful of years now," he smiled. "She said I reminded her of her husband. I wasn't surprised when she included me and my side of the family in her will."
"I didn't want to intrude while your family handled their affairs," he continues. "Death brings complications. And your aunt was a woman of considerable means."
He glances toward the mansion through the trees, its roof just visible between branches.
"I arrived this afternoon. Straight from the airport. I met with Mr. Bello, Mr. Libre, and Mr. Candela." His lips curve faintly. "They are very thorough men."
I can picture it. The three lawyers in their immaculate suits, trying to maintain composure while a tall, willow‑slender elf‑like man in Regency clothing walked into their office.
"They told me everything," Lorian says. "About you. About your recovery. About the will."
His eyes, those swirling hazel‑green phoenix eyes, settle on me with a softness that feels almost protective.
"And they told me the mansion is yours now. Entirely yours."
A breeze stirs the leaves, brushing cool air across my face.
Lorian steps a little closer, careful not to startle me.
"Your aunt left something for my side as well," he says. "Something in the will that pertains to me. I won't press you about it yet. You've only just woken, and the weight of inheritance is not light."
He pauses, studying me with a quiet intensity.
"But I needed to see you. To know you were truly awake. Your great aunt Olivia spoke of you often. Of all the family, you were most like her when she was young."
With the sense that my great‑aunt's world was far larger than I ever understood.
Lorian straightens, the willow‑grace returning to his posture.
"When you're ready," he says softly, "I will tell you what she left for me. And why she trusted you with the rest."
The morning sunlight breaks through the trees, illuminating him like a figure from a forgotten myth.