Emily woke before dawn to the distinct click of a door unlocking. Not the one to her bedroom—one far down the east corridor, near the old servant quarters long abandoned.
She rose quietly, heart already racing.
She wrapped herself in a shawl, slipped on flats, and stepped into the hall.
The house felt different this morning—older, alert as if it too were waking from a long sleep. The paintings along the hallway watched her pass with judging eyes, the kind only history could carve.
She followed the sound. One slow, metallic creak at a time.
The door had been left ajar.
Beyond it, a narrow staircase spiralled down into the dark.
She descended.
---
The room at the bottom was unexpected—clean, organized, and humming with electricity. Not an old pantry, as she'd thought.
A surveillance room.
Screens lined the wall, flickering between different areas of the estate. Most of them were standard—entryways, corridors, gates—but three were focused on her.
One from the hallway outside her room. One in the greenhouse. And one… from the bakery. Her old life.
She stepped closer.
The footage was looping. Not live. Historical.
Emily reached for the console and then froze at a low voice from behind her.
"You were always curious."
She turned.
And saw him.
Tall, lean, dressed in grey and silence—Lucien Knight.
He smiled like a knife being unsheathed. "Hello, Emily. You look just like her."
Her mother.
Emily instinctively stepped back.
Lucien raised his hands. "I'm not here to hurt you. Not yet. That depends on you."
"What do you want?" she demanded.
"I want what's mine," he said, stepping into the light. "And I want you to help me get it."
---
Upstairs, Alexander slammed into the now-empty surveillance room.
Too late.
His eyes locked onto the live feed—a camera pointed at the stairwell. And at the last frame before it went black:
Emily, face-to-face with the ghost of his past.
Lucien was back.
And the war had begun.