Morning broke over the Blake ancestral estate like a blade, sharp, cold, and unforgiving.
The mansion stood at the edge of the city, old enough that its stones remembered blood and legacy, large enough to swallow armies whole. This was no home; it was a monument carved out of pride and secrets. Every window reflected history. Every corridor carried the ghosts of those who'd bowed to the Blake name and those who'd died resisting it.
Elias had call for Adrian at dawn.
"Come to the estate. Immediately."
No explanation.
Because none was needed.
When the patriarch summoned, even kings in the underworld paused.
Adrian arrived with Stephen who drove him, stepping out onto the gravel drive with the kind of composure men spent lifetimes trying to imitate. His coat caught the morning wind; his shadow stretched across the stone steps like something that belonged here—though half the family still refused to believe it.
Inside, the air was colder.
Not temperature cold... heritage cold.
