The silence between us was a living thing, a hollow space where words had recently been. I turned from it, seeking refuge in the passing world outside. In the violet twilight, the first stars pricked the canopy of the sky, and from the yards of unseen homes, the sweet perfume of night-blooming flowers drifted on a cool, gentle breeze.

We finally stopped before a set of worn stone stairs that vanished into a deep patch of darkness. It was Cassius who broke the quiet, his voice a low murmur. “This way. It’s just up here.”

He ascended, and I followed him into the gloom. The door at the top of the stairs groaned in protest under his touch, swinging inward to reveal an interior steeped in shadow. Only slivers of moonlight, sharp as glass, pierced the oppressive dark.

“The lights are… unconventional,” Cassius said, his form a mere silhouette against the open door. “Thalia. Reach out with your mana. Let the home know its family has returned.”

Closing my eyes, I drew a slow breath and focused. I felt my power as a warmth in my chest, a coiled tendril of light that I carefully unfurled. It stretched from me, a silent, searching thing, branching into every unseen corner, brushing against dormant magic like a key turning in a long-forgotten lock. In response, a soft, ethereal glow bloomed throughout the house. It was not the harsh light of a lamp, but a gentle, silvery luminescence that seemed to emanate from the very walls, singing a soft, welcoming hum.

The home was breathtaking. Carved, elegant furniture stood like patient sentinels under a fine coat of dust. We proceeded down a long hall, our footsteps echoing softly, drawn toward a great table of richly carved oak that looked as though it once bore the weight of cherished mementos. But it was what hung above it that stole the air from my lungs.

A large, ornate portrait was mounted on the wall, its golden frame a tangle of exquisitely wrought vines. The painting depicted a tall, slender man with hair like spun snow, standing beside a woman of such arresting beauty it made my heart ache. Her hair was the color of captured moonlight, her eyes a shade of blue so startling they seemed to see right through me. They could have been twins, sharing the same fine bones and elegantly pointed ears.

A tidal wave of recognition crashed over me, so powerful it buckled my knees. It was my mother.

My hand trembled as I reached out, my fingers hovering just over the painted surface, afraid to touch it, to somehow shatter the illusion. Cassius was a statue of stillness beside me, a silent guardian to my grief, allowing me the space to absorb the blow.

“I haven’t seen her in so long,” I whispered, the words ragged. “But she looks… exactly the same. Except…” My gaze drifted to the delicate, tapered points of her ears. I traced their shape in the air before me. “She never let them show. I never thought I would see them.” A hot pressure built behind my eyes, but I refused the tears. I would not weep. Not yet. My attention shifted to the man beside her. “Who is he?”

“That is Sylvan Lorendel,” Cassius explained, his tone gentle but measured. “Your mother’s twin brother. Your uncle.”

“My uncle?” The word felt foreign on my tongue. I studied his face again—the same stark white hair, the same strong jawline. He was a mirror of her, yet different. “What happened to him? Is he alive?” I finally tore my gaze from the portrait to look at Cassius, my hand falling limply to my side.

“I cannot be certain,” he replied, and I noted a careful distance in his voice. “He was alive and well the last I knew, but a great deal of time has passed.”

“They look so happy,” I murmured, my eyes returning to the portrait. “Did they… get along?”

Cassius paused, choosing his words. “They were inseparable. Two halves of a whole, for most of their lives. Then, something changed. A rift formed. I was never privy to the reason.”

A fresh wave of questions churned within me. What could have been so terrible to divide them? And is he still out there, my last living relative?

“Would you like me to tell you what I know of her?” Cassius asked softly.

“Yes,” I said, the word coming out with more force than I intended. “Please. Let’s find the sitting room.”

I followed him as we moved deeper into the silent house, our elven light gliding ahead of us. We peered into several dust-shrouded rooms before finding it. The space was a perfect time capsule, everything preserved under a thick, gray blanket of dust. I sank into a plush armchair, sending a ghostly plume into the air. Cassius took the one opposite.

“My mother told me stories,” Cassius began, his voice a soft counterpoint to the profound quiet. “She said yours was the kindest soul in Aelindoria. She put everyone before herself.”

A faint, sad smile touched my lips. That sounds like her.

“She was renowned,” he continued, leaning forward. “Always crafting some new enchantment for the people. She never accepted a coin for her work. My mother was especially fond of her. She told me of a time she was attacked by creatures just outside the city walls.” He paused, letting the silence build. “Your mother arrived in a flash of light. She threw herself in front of my mother and cast an enchantment she had woven into a small amulet. When the creatures struck, a shimmering shield of force erupted around them. The impact triggered a concussive blast that vaporized the creatures, leaving them both perfectly safe inside.”

He went on, sharing the small, common stories that, while perhaps known to all the elves of his generation, were priceless treasures to me. Each tale added a new brushstroke to the portrait in the hall, coloring in my mother.

When the stories dwindled, a comfortable silence settled between us. We decided to explore the upper floor, seeking out the bedrooms. The first we found was simple and well-appointed. “This seems to be a guest room, or perhaps your uncle’s,” Cassius said. “I’ll take this one. Let’s find your mother’s.”

It was just down the hall. The moment I pushed the door open, I felt it—a palpable sense of peace, of serenity. A large bed with an intricately carved trunk at its foot dominated one wall. Across from it, a fireplace of white stone sat cold and silent. In the corner stood a comfortable-looking armchair, a soft blanket draped over its arm. My attention, however, was snagged by a tall, elegant wardrobe. Did she leave anything behind?

Cassius’s voice pulled me back. “It’s late. I’m going to turn in. Sleep well, Thalia.”

“You too, Cassius.”

He closed the door, and the quiet of the room enveloped me. My eyes went immediately back to the wardrobe. Crossing the floor, I pulled its heavy doors open. It was empty, except for a single outfit tucked away in the very back, as if hidden. It was a long, white dress with nearly sheer sleeves and intricate silver embroidery that seemed to drink in the elven light. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

My gaze fell to my own rumpled, blood-stained shirt. The filth of my journey felt like a desecration in this pristine space. Reaching into the dimensional storage Amelia had given me, I pulled out a fresh shirt and trousers, along with a set for Cassius. “I’ll give these to him in the morning,” I murmured, my voice sounding impossibly loud.

My eyelids were heavy, but I was drawn to the chair in the corner. I could almost picture her curled up in it, gazing out the window. The view was magnificent, a sprawling panorama of Aelindoria’s vibrant life. My gaze eventually drifted down to the windowsill. Resting there, beside a tarnished silver pen, was a leather-bound journal.

My heart gave a sharp kick.

Curiosity warred with a sense of reverence as I picked it up. Elegant, flowing script graced the first page: Property of Syanna Lorendel.

Just beneath it, in smaller, sharper writing, was a hastily added addendum: Sylvan, that means you. Do not read!

A ghost of a smile touched my lips. I set the journal down, my hand shaking slightly. I should leave it. It was private. But the urge, the desperate need to know her, was a physical ache. After a moment’s battle, I lifted the soft blanket from the chair and gave it a firm shake, sending a century of dust dancing into the air.

Once it settled, I curled up in the chair, the worn leather of my mother’s journal feeling warm in my hands. I hesitated, my thumb stroking the cover. This felt like a point of no return, a door I could not close once opened.

What will I find in here?

With a final, deep breath, I opened it to the first entry.