I signed my na at the bottom of the last page.
A slow, precise, almost ceremonial gesture.
A habit I had picked up from Anthony.
He wrote at night, his gaze lost in the shadows, his thoughts weaving worlds that only he truly understood.
I did it in the morning.
When the mind is still pure, washed clean of the previous day’s fears, suspended between dream and reality.
It was a mont for myself, intimate, fragile, like a breath before the storm.
With every word laid on the paper, I felt myself take root.
I felt that I was leaving a mark.
That ritual cald .
It had sothing sacred, fragile, profoundly real.
As if putting the words down on paper confird, in a way that neither speech nor mory could equal, that all of it was real.
That I wasn’t dreaming.
That this life, this house, this na... weren’t fleeting illusions ant to vanish upon waking.
Each written line beca tangible proof.
An anchor.
And as long as the ink dried beneath my fingers, I could believe — no, I could know — that I was truly here.
Alive. Loved. Free.
Once I closed my book, I left the cocoon of my suspended bed, delicately held aloft by strands of crystallized shadow.
In the dim morning light, the structure swayed gently, in perfect harmony with my will, responding to every breath of thought.
At the instinct of a fleeting desire, it rocked, like a gondola drifting effortlessly through a motionless sky where even the wind seed to have gone still.
Each movent was a silent dance, proof that even in this world of shadows, my mind could still shape it in the image of my dreams.
I smiled.
What an exceptional bed...
A wonder of comfort and strangeness, at the crossroads of magic and dream.
Suspended between matter and thought, it seed almost alive, receptive to my moods, lulled by my silences.
Nothing like the coarse straw beds, the cold stones, or the bare floors of my forr shelters.
This bed... it was more than a piece of furniture.
It was a symbol.
Of what I had conquered.
Of what had been offered to .
Of what I had beco.
And that simple smile, discreet, sincere, was my silent tribute to all of it.
Every ti I used it, I thought of him.
Of what he had done.
This bed, this jewel of magic and comfort, had been made for .
Not out of whim, nor to impress .
But with love. With care.
With that quiet, patient attention he poured into everything he gave .
Like so many other things he had created or chosen for — not to buy , but to heal .
To elevate . To root in a world that, at last, recognized .
And each ti I felt that gentle sway, that silent response to my thought, I rembered that I was here because he had willed it.
Because he had believed in .
Even before I could believe in myself.
My gaze drifted around the room, slowly, almost tenderly.
And I couldn’t help but think: all the furniture in my room is mad.
Not a single piece was ordinary.
The dresser floated a few centiters above the ground, gently rocked by a non-existent breeze.
The desk slightly bent its legs, as if stretching after a long night of vigil.
Even the shelves seed to breathe, adjusting their height to suit the object placed upon them.
An animated universe, strange, deeply magical.
And I adored them. All of them.
Not for their strangeness, but for what they represented: a space designed for , shaped in my image, with an eccentric tenderness.
A place where every object seed to whisper: you are ho.
An inverted mirror, suspended from the ceiling, reflected every detail of my room... except .
No matter the angle, the light, the mont: my reflection never appeared.
As if the mirror refused to acknowledge my forr existence.
Or perhaps... as if it recalled a ti when I didn’t quite exist yet.
A vestige from before.
A discreet symbol of erasure, or of rebirth.
Not far from it, a library — but without a single book.
Instead, it held mories.
Fragnts of crystallized thoughts, blurry images, laughter suspended in translucent shards.
I could brush them with my fingertips, pass through them, and relive buried monts.
So made cry.
Others, laugh until I couldn’t breathe.
It was an intimate, living museum of my own mory.
Of what I had been.
Of what I had beco.
And in a shadowy corner, almost invisible at first glance, a strange cocoon glowed with a soft, pulsing light, like a sleeping heart.
When I approached, it opened slowly, noiselessly, and wrapped around like a benevolent embrace.
Inside, ti slowed.
The world ceased to hurt .
I could ditate there, refocus, lose myself without fear, and find myself again without sha.
A few hours there were enough to erase entire days of tension.
It was my sanctuary.
My silence.
My center.
I loved that eccentricity.
That strange excess, that blend of magic and gentle madness.
Every piece of furniture, every corner, every anomaly in my room seed to tell a story — not the story of a cold and perfect palace, but of a place shaped with love, with boldness, with disordered tenderness.
Nothing was conventional.
Nothing was normal.
And that was exactly what made it perfect in my eyes.
It wasn’t just a room... it was a reflection of .
Of what I had beco.
Unique. Unpredictable. Alive.
It wasn’t just my room.
It was a reflection of what I was becoming.
Not a slave.
Not a wanderer.
But Lysara Thalaris Von Eskarion.
Daughter of a legendary vampire.
Free. Alive.
And, at last... happy.
That morning, determined to at least share breakfast with my father, I set down my pen, closed my journal, and slowly left my suspended bed.
The strands of crystallized shadow responded imdiately to my thought, releasing the elegant floating nacelle in which I slept each night.
It stabilized in the air with a supernatural softness, almost reverent.
That bed was a masterpiece.
Exceptional.
Like every detail of my room, for that matter.
I crossed the warm mist of the Shimring Wing — my personal sanctuary, suspended between two floors of the manor, accessible only if I wished it.
A place outside the world.
The silence there vibrated, alive.
The walls whispered without sound.
Every piece of furniture seed to listen to my movents.
I passed the inverted mirror, which reflected the entire room... except .
A library brushed against silently, placing a soft mory in my mind: the first ti Anthony had offered a strategy treatise, annotated with his sharp comnts... and a few surprisingly humorous touches.
I stepped through the semi-liquid wall, a fluid wave that closed behind , and erged into the main corridor, returning to the familiar atmosphere of the manor: vast, solemn, breathing controlled power.
I descended the staircase carved from Abyssium, each step gently vibrating beneath my feet, as if it recognized .
On the walls, enchanted lanterns held cold flas, slowly flickering, casting elongated shadows that danced to the rhythm of my steps.
Stewards passed near .
None spoke.
They bowed deeply, hands crossed, eyes lowered in silent reverence.
Words weren’t needed.
Ever since I bore the na Thalaris Von Eskarion, their respect had taken on a subtle shade of veneration.
I still didn’t know if I deserved it.
But I accepted it.
For him.
For Anthony.
I continued my descent.
On the third floor, my gaze settled on the organic door to my father’s room, visible in the distance between the obsidian arches.
It throbbed gently, like a sleeping heart, its living surface marked by slow, steady pulses.
That door responded to his mood, his presence, his will.
This morning, it was peaceful. Calm.
Anthony must still be asleep... or ditating in one of those deep silences he so loved.
Just from that glow, I knew he was well.
I resud my path, farther down still, to the level of the private arcana.
As I passed, I caught sight of the entrance to the Sanctuary of the Inner Fla — a double arch carved from black Brascroc, intertwined with living runes.
A faint crimson light leaked out from within, undulating like an ancient breath.
I didn’t even slow down, but the warmth — soft and penetrating — brushed against my side.
A shiver ran through .
That place still fascinated .
It was a burning heart, a forge of the soul, a secret.
The fire ward you... even without touch.
At last, I reached the second floor.
The Brain of the Beast.
That’s what they called it.
Where thought, mory, and command of the manor converged.
Anthony’s strategic mind was imprinted everywhere, like an invisible presence, always alert.
I first walked through the Strategy Room — vast, silent, almost solemn.
At its center, the living table gently rippled, its crystalline veins lit with a pale glow.
Semi-organic pawns moved slowly across it, alone, as if driven by dreams of war.
A war they anticipated, or perhaps longed for.
I paused for a mont, fascinated, and observed a zone in constant agitation: the grey mists of Kharz’Gorath.
The borders of that cursed realm pulsed with nervousness.
Unstable. Uneasy.
Sothing was moving there... and it was not a good sign.
A silent steward appeared, as though erging from the stone itself.
Without a word, he gestured for to follow, and we entered a long vaulted corridor, its walls carved from raw Malacite, vibrating with ancient power.
Symbols etched into the stone ca to life as we passed — fragnts of forgotten oaths, pacts binding nas even the dead no longer dared to utter.
They appeared, flickered once, then vanished like mories refused.
A strange breath brushed against the nape of my neck.
I slowed.
To my left, invisible to the eye but burning in the mind, I felt the call of the Library of the Eclipse.
A place impossible to ignore.
The scent of ancient leather, of pages sewn with mory, struck like a familiar whisper.
I shivered.
The temptation to enter was strong.
But not today.
Another ti, I would linger there.
When my mind would be ready to face what it kept.
Then I descended the last stairs to the first floor.
The walls changed.
Subtly, but inevitably.
The stone grew lighter, adorned with reflections of pale gold and molten mother-of-pearl.
The architecture opened, unfolding with a more formal grace.
It was another face of the manor.
Less intimate. More observed.
The Guest Nights, as Anthony called that wing.
Where our footsteps never quite belonged to us.
I walked through the Gallery of Past Visitors.
A long, silent corridor, frad by moving portraits, slightly veiled like in a lucid dream.
The forr guests watched us, their gazes still alive, filled with mories and forgotten protocols.
So nodded with dignity, others greeted with a mischievous wink, companions in a humor lost to ti.
Whispers drifted through the air, fragnts of old negotiations, oaths exchanged in low voices beneath the gilding of a bygone age.
A nobleman long dead — fine beard, sharp and lifeless eyes — bowed with elegance as I passed.
"Lady Lysara."
His voice was a whisper, almost a scent.
I answered with a simple glance.
I needed nothing more.
They knew.
All of them.
A little farther on, the Moon Salon opened like an alcove bathed in silvery gloom.
A spectral harp, resting in a corner as if forgotten by a weary muse, played by itself.
Its strings vibrated under invisible hands, weaving a slow, lancholic lody.
The harp changed with the days.
Today, it sounded sad.
As if it, too, felt the mood of the manor.
Or perhaps... mine.
And finally, I approached the suspended dining room.
The air there was cooler, almost charged with an imperceptible vibration, as though the manor itself was holding its breath.
Tinted glass walls gave a glimpse of the Ember Garden below — a bed of vitrified ash where red flowers danced, radiant, alive despite their scorched nature.
Their slow, graceful movent whispered a promise of resilience with every breeze.
I entered.
And the room welcod .
The black furniture with its sober lines, the tablecloths woven with threads of shadow, the intricately crafted silverware etched with secret patterns — all seed to await , silent, almost reverent.
Here, everything had its place.
Nothing was left to chance.
And at the far end of the room, near the wide window open to infinity, he was there.
Anthony. My father.
Seated in the pale morning light, a steaming cup between his fingers, his gaze fixed far away, lost in thought like an immovable fortress.
At the re sight of him, without a word, without a gesture, everything within cald.
And for a mont — suspended, unreal — I felt it more strongly than ever:
The warmth.
The safety.
The stillness.
That quiet, intimate certainty that as long as he was there, I would never have to be afraid again.
I sat gently beside him, silent, savoring that simple mont.
A shared breakfast.
Nothing grand, nothing ceremonial.
Just us.
And yet, in a world woven of wars, mysteries, and shifting shadows, that simple gesture was worth more than all treasures.
A fragnt of eternity in a predatory universe.
What followed was a day full of lessons.
My schedule no longer resembled a life of wandering.
It now had the rigor of an ascent.
In addition to courses in common languages, refined writing, and elaborate cooking — essential for one day hosting without sha — I attended strict sessions in noble etiquette.
The art of poise.
Gestural codes.
The silent rules among the powerful, those subtle signals that forged or shattered alliances with a re tilt of the head.
To that were added classes in political history, strategic geography, and ancient stories passed down in hushed voices through the great bloodlines.
Truths forbidden to ordinary citizens.
At first, I felt like a stranger.
Like a raw piece of tal tossed into a fragile golden case.
Unshaped. Unfit.
But little by little...
Through perseverance, attention, and that insatiable hunger the streets had taught , I found my place.
My teachers — scholars severe, sotis inhuman, sotis at the very edge of what one might still call alive — treated with respect.
So out of caution. Because of my na.
Others... because they saw in a serious student.
A determined fla, untad, starving for knowledge.
And I learned.
With the sa silent fever that once pushed to steal bread in filthy alleys.
Every word, every gesture, every detail absorbed, digested, anchored into my muscles and mind.
But this ti... it wasn’t to survive.
Not to obey.
Not to beg for a place.
It was to live.
To live fully. Freely.
And in that routine, which others might have found burdenso, I discovered a kind of joy.
A rhythm.
A deep breath.
A reassuring, almost sacred constancy.
Because every morning, I was expected.
Not as a burden.
Not as a duty.
But as a recognized, integrated, important existence.
Every day, I had a purpose to pursue, a fla to feed.
And every evening, as the light unraveled into dark wisps behind the glass walls, I returned to my suspended room, gently carried by the filants of crystallized shadow.
And my heart... was light.
My life was changing.
Not all at once, not like a bolt of lightning.
No.
It was changing like the slow warmth of a quiet fire, spreading patiently beneath the ash, insidious but unstoppable.
A fire that didn’t devour: it built.
It ward.
It lit the way.
And I...
I was becoming alive.
Alive like I had never been before.
Not just out of instinct.
Not out of necessity.
But because I had finally found permission to exist.
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