185: Wall Of mories 185: Wall Of mories Elion closed Raelynn’s door softly, his fingers lingering on the handle for a mont before he exhaled and stepped back.
The warmth of her presence still clung to him—the way she had looked at him when he had wished their child goodnight, the soft rise and fall of her breath as she drifted into sleep.
It was grounding, a tether to sothing he never thought he would have.
Yet, instead of returning to his room, his feet took him elsewhere.
Silent as a phantom, he moved through the darkened halls, his steps asured, deliberate.
The mansion at night was a different world—shadows stretched along the marble floors, the chandeliers above were unlit, and the only light ca from the moon filtering through the towering windows.
Elion reached his study and pushed the door open.
The scent of aged books and polished wood greeted him, familiar and unchanged.
But unlike other nights, he didn’t go to his desk.
Instead, his gaze settled on the grand bookshelf lining the far wall.
Without hesitation, he reached forward, fingers brushing against the leather-bound spines before pulling a specific book outward.
A quiet click echoed in the room, followed by the faint groan of shifting chanisms.
The bookshelf trembled slightly before sliding back, revealing a hidden passageway behind it.
Elion stepped inside.
The air here was different—cooler, heavier.
The stone walls were etched with glowing runes, their faint light casting eerie patterns along the narrow corridor.
Each step he took echoed softly as he descended the spiral stone staircase.
He hadn’t been down here in a long ti.
Yet now, as if drawn by so unseen force, he found himself seeking what lay in the depths.
At the end of the staircase, the corridor widened into a small, dimly lit chamber.
Shadows clung to the corners, and on the farthest wall, a collection of frad photographs was displayed.
Elion stopped.
The flickering torchlight cast a golden hue over the images, each capturing a different ti, a different version of himself.
He stared at them, at the faces he had worn all this ti.
One showed him in a Victorian-era suit, standing on a cobbled street.
Another captured him under the warm glow of gaslight, a woman’s gloved hand resting lightly on his arm.
A third had him dressed in an old military uniform, his expression unreadable.
There were more—images spanning lifetis, worlds of history frozen in ti.
Elion reached out, his fingertips grazing the edge of a fra.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips, but there was no warmth in it.
“It’s been a while…” he murmured to himself.
A sudden noise snapped him from his thoughts—the sound of footsteps descending the stairs.
Elion didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.
“Reinhart,” he said smoothly, his voice echoing slightly in the chamber.
“What are you doing down here?” “What else?” Reinhart’s voice was casual, but there was a sharp undertone.
“Looking for you.” Elion finally turned, his gaze locking onto the approaching figure.
Reinhart leaned against the stone wall, arms crossed over his chest, expression unreadable.
“You need to give your report,” Reinhart continued.
“Don’t tell you forgot.” Elion blinked once, his mind catching up to Reinhart’s words.
Right.
The report.
He hadn’t gotten one yet today.
That was… unusual for him.
He was ticulous, always keeping track of things, yet sohow, it had slipped his mind.
That wasn’t like him.
His gaze flickered over Reinhart, who was watching him with that sa grin, waiting.
It was a rare thing for Reinhart to take his job seriously, but when it ca to reporting, he never missed a day.
Maybe it was just force of habit, or maybe it was sothing else, but Elion knew he was lucky that Reinhart—despite his constant complaints—actually did what was expected of him.
Elion’s gaze flickered, then he turned back to the wall.
“You could have waited upstairs.” Reinhart let out a short chuckle.
“And who knows how long you’d be down here, lost in your mories?” He pushed off the wall and stepped beside Elion, his gaze shifting toward the photographs.
“Ah… what mories these are.” Elion’s eyes darkened slightly.
He knew what Reinhart ant.
Every photograph held a story, a mont in ti, so filled with triumph, others with regret.
He didn’t answer, rely tilting his head slightly as he waited.
“The report?” he reminded coldly.
“Go on.” Reinhart smirked.
“Ah, so you do care.
I was starting to think you’d completely lost interest.” Elion didn’t dignify that with a response, rely raising a brow in silent demand.
Reinhart exhaled as if humoring him.
“Right, right.
Nothing unusual, really.
Your bride spent most of the day in the library.
Honestly, it was so dull I thought I might fall asleep.” Reinhart stretched lazily, as if he had all the ti in the world, before adding, “But—” Elion’s gaze snapped to him, sharp and expectant.
“But,” Reinhart continued, a slow smirk tugging at his lips, “there was sothing interesting.” Elion remained silent, waiting.
He didn’t indulge in unnecessary words, and Reinhart knew that.
A smirk tugged at Reinhart’s lips as he stepped closer, his voice lowering slightly.
“The necklace.” Elion’s expression didn’t change, but his fingers curled slightly at his side.
“You know, don’t you?” Reinhart pressed.
Elion finally turned to face him fully, his eyes steady.
“Of course I do.” Reinhart’s smirk widened.
“Who do you think I am?” He stepped back and stretched.
“Well, that’s it then.
Nothing else to report.” Elion said nothing, watching as Reinhart turned toward the exit.
But just as he reached the passageway, he paused.
Without looking back, he spoke again.
“Don’t drown too much in the past, Elion.” His voice was lighter now, almost teasing, but there was sothing else beneath it.
“Not when the future is waiting upstairs.” Then he was gone, his footsteps fading into the distance.
Elion turned back to the wall, his eyes settling once more on the photographs.
He exhaled slowly, then reached out—his fingers brushing over the image before without another word, he turned away, leaving the chamber behind.
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