The words still echoed in Elara's ears:
> "Every thing outside this house just felt it."
She wasn't sure which part was worse — that Valeria had said it so casually, or that the house hummed in agreement, low and proud like a wolf's growl.
Elara sat slumped on the dais floor, half-covered in sweat and ethereal dust, cradling the weight of a new name. Elara Valeblood. A name soaked in blood, inherited war, and now a memory of a trial that hadn't just tested her strength — but her will to remain herself.
The ghost court was dissolving one throne at a time, their murmurs fading like incense smoke. The First Elara's presence had burned out, leaving behind a seared patch in the room's atmosphere — something bitter and victorious, like a candle made of regret.
Valeria offered a flask.
"Water?" Elara asked, uncorking it.
"Brandy," Valeria said. "Welcome to aristocracy."
Elara sipped. Coughed. Choked.
Balthazar snickered. "Maybe next time wait until after breakfast."
Eryx stepped forward, grave as ever. "You've completed the rite. But something has changed. The house has… opened."
He extended a hand. In his palm rested a small silver key — ancient, ornate, and humming with cold energy.
"This just appeared in the Hall of Veins," he said. "It's yours now."
Elara looked at it. "What does it open?"
Eryx's face gave nothing away. "A door. One that hasn't been seen since the First Elara reigned."
"And where is this door?"
Valeria answered before he could.
"The East Wing."
Elara blinked. "There is no East Wing."
"There wasn't," Valeria said. "Now there is."
---
She followed Eryx and Valeria through corridors she knew hadn't existed yesterday. Valeblood Manor had rearranged itself like a living Rubik's cube with too many teeth. Paintings she didn't recognize now lined the halls: depictions of women who all looked eerily like her, each at the center of fire, storms, battles — and funerals.
Candles lit of their own accord as they passed, their flames whispering in some lost tongue. The air smelled like damp paper and lightning. The kind of scent that only followed revelations or storms.
They arrived at a plain wooden wall.
No door.
No knob.
Just wood.
Until Elara stepped forward.
The pendant around her neck warmed, and the silver key buzzed against her palm. The wood rippled like disturbed water. A seam appeared. Then a handle. Then the outline of a tall Gothic door in silver and black.
Balthazar hissed softly. "The Whispering Door."
"You know it?" Elara asked.
"Only by myth," he said. "They say what's behind it only opens once every generation — and only when the house finds a worthy voice."
"Voice?"
Valeria stepped back. "It doesn't open with the key alone. You have to speak to it."
"Say what?"
Eryx looked grim. "Your truth."
Elara sighed. "This house is exhausting."
"It is the house of your blood," Valeria said. "What did you expect? Breakfast and property tax?"
Elara took a breath. The pendant pulsed once, the key warmed twice.
She stepped forward.
Touched the door.
And whispered, "I was never meant to be anyone's heir. But I'm not running anymore."
The key glowed.
The door shuddered.
And opened.
---
Beyond was a study — vast, circular, and ancient. The walls were covered in shelves, and every shelf overflowed with books bound in skin, wax, glass, and sometimes — unsettlingly — hair. A massive window overlooked a landscape that didn't exist in the real world: a moor perpetually stuck at dusk, shadow-creatures roaming far below in silence.
In the center of the room was a desk. And behind it, a journal.
Her name was carved on the leather cover.
Not Elara Graves. Not Elara Valeblood.
Just Elara.
She opened it.
Blank.
Except the first line.
> "To rewrite a curse, one must first remember the story as it truly was."
Balthazar jumped onto the desk, sniffed the journal, and arched his back. "Witchcraft. Old. Raw. Good taste."
Eryx circled the room, brushing dust from an iron globe. "This is the Chronicle Room. It keeps the record of the family's bloodline — through those who are chosen to write it."
Valeria was inspecting a locked cabinet. "But only one voice at a time."
"So I'm the scribe now?" Elara asked.
"No," said Eryx. "You're the story."
---
The room shifted as the journal shimmered.
A page turned.
Another began to write itself — in ink made of shadow.
> "The child was never meant to be born. She was a fracture. A consequence of grief and defiance."
Elara stared, heart thudding.
> "Born to a forgotten daughter of Valeblood. Raised in silence. Hidden from the house until the blood called her home."
She reached out and slammed the book shut.
"Nope. No thank you. That's enough trauma for one morning."
The pendant around her neck burned with sudden heat. Her ears rang with whispers she couldn't understand. The manor was listening.
And it was remembering.
---
Later, in her quarters, Elara wrapped herself in the patchwork robe she'd found in a trunk labeled Property of the Third Elara and stared into the fireplace.
Eryx sat across from her, polishing the pendant she'd almost torn off twice already.
"Did you know?" she asked. "About me? About my bloodline?"
He hesitated.
"Yes."
"You're a real bastard, you know that?"
"I've been told."
She sighed, dropping her head back. "So what now?"
"The East Wing is open," he said. "The court has acknowledged you. The Chronicle Room has returned. You've been named by the house."
"So I redecorate and start charging rent to ghosts?"
"No," Eryx said. "Now you begin the Second Trial."
Elara groaned. "Of course there's a second one."