The late afternoon sun streamed through the tall library windows of Thorne Manor, casting golden rectangles across the polished oak floor. I ran my fingers along the spines of ancient books, breathing in the familiar scent of leather, parchment, and the subtle hints of cedarwood that had preserved these tomes for generations.
At twenty-one years of age, I found myself increasingly drawn to this sanctuary of knowledge my parents had meticulously maintained. As the eldest son of Duke Alaric and Duchess Isabella Thorne, I'd grown up hearing whispered stories of their triumphs over darkness, tales that seemed more legend than reality in the peaceful world we now inhabited.
"Lysander! Are you hiding in here again?" My sister Mariella's voice cut through my thoughts as she appeared in the doorway, her dark hair—so like our mother's—pulled back in a loose braid, smudges of paint on her fingers.
"I'm not hiding," I replied, smiling at her exasperated expression. "I'm researching."
