The air in the room was heavy with the scent of old paper and things better left forgotten. Elara stood in the center of the cramped space, her flashlight beam cutting through the dust motes like a blade.
She shouldn't have been here. The lawyer had been very specific: "Clear the house, but do not touch the sealed chest in the north corner." Naturally, Elara was currently standing three feet away from that exact chest.
It was bound in rusted iron and draped in a heavy, moth-eaten velvet cloth. Unlike the rest of the house, which felt dead and hollow, the chest seemed to hum. It was a low, subsonic vibration that Elara felt more in her teeth than her ears.
"Just one look," she whispered, her voice sounding thin in the darkness. "I'm the last of the line. I have a right to know."
She reached out. As her fingers brushed the iron lock, the vibration stopped instantly. Silence, heavy and absolute, crashed down on the room. Then, the lock didn't just open—it disintegrated into fine gray ash.
The lid creaked upward of its own accord, barely an inch, and a thin wisp of iridescent blue smoke curled out. It didn't drift upward. It lunged, wrapping itself around Elara's wrist like a living pulse.
She tried to scream, but her breath caught. On her skin, right where the smoke touched, a series of glowing symbols began to burn. They weren't just letters; they were memories. She saw a city of glass, a sky turned violet, and a man with eyes like dying stars.
"Finally," a voice echoed, not from the room, but from inside her own head. "We've been waiting for a bloodline strong enough to survive the waking."
Elara stumbled back, hitting a stack of old mirrors. As they shattered, she didn't see her own reflection. She saw someone else—someone wearing her face, but dressed in robes of shimmering shadow, holding a key that looked exactly like the one currently manifesting in her palm.
The inheritance wasn't money. It wasn't the house. It was a debt three centuries old, and it had just come due.