Deborah's POV
I stood at the entrance of the Lee family estate, taking a deep breath as I gazed at the building before me. This was the house where I was born and raised. In my memories, it had always been grand and majestic, a symbol of my family's pride and legacy. But now, the sight of it was like a dagger twisting in my chest.
The gates were coated in thick layers of dust and cobwebs, seemingly untouched by any living hand. Though it had been abandoned for less than a year, the air carried the weight of time—oppressive and heavy with the scent of decay. I reached out and pushed the heavy wooden doors open. The hinges creaked loudly in the stillness, as if the house itself were protesting the intrusion.
As I stepped inside, a wave of familiarity and strangeness washed over me. The grand hall was exactly as I remembered it in structure, but it had lost its warmth. The chandelier that once cast a golden glow during family gatherings now hung lifeless and dim. Dust clung to every surface—marble floors, intricately carved furniture, and even the gilded frames that had once held vibrant paintings. The only sound was the faint crunch of dirt under my shoes, breaking the oppressive silence.
This was the hall where my mother once held my hand, guiding me through elaborate receptions and introducing me to distinguished guests. My father would stand at the top of the staircase, smiling graciously as he greeted everyone. Their presence had been the heart of this place, filling it with life and laughter. But now, only shadows of those memories remained, cold and unyielding.
My eyes were drawn to the far wall, where a large family portrait still hung. Its once-bright colors were dulled by a thin layer of grime, but the faces in it were unmistakable.
I stepped closer, unable to stop myself from studying the painting. There I was, freshly turned eighteen, standing between my parents with a radiant smile. I wore a white dress my mother had chosen for me—it had been her gift for my coming-of-age celebration. My shoes, polished to perfection, had been a present from my father. That day, they had both doted on me like I was their world. My mother had tied my hair in a sleek ponytail and added a silk ribbon at the last moment, saying it would bring me luck.
"Deborah," she'd told me with a smile, "you are the pride of our family."
Looking at that portrait, my throat tightened painfully. It was a snapshot of happiness, of a life that was irreversibly gone.
Blinking back tears, I turned away and walked further down the corridor.
The walls here were lined with my old paintings, each one preserved behind glass frames. I had loved painting as a child, capturing landscapes, rivers, forests, and even the garden outside. My father used to say my work was a reflection of my soul. He'd had every piece framed and hung here, proudly displaying them for anyone who visited the house.
But now, like everything else, the paintings were buried beneath layers of dust. The vibrant colors I'd poured my heart into were muted, their edges blurred by neglect. I reached out and wiped the dust from one frame. It was a painting of a white wolf soaring through a clear blue sky. My father had stood behind me as I painted it, pointing to the wolf and saying, "Deborah, one day you'll be like that—free and untouchable."
Free. The word echoed in my mind, cruel and mocking. Could I, burdened with the weight of my past and the need for revenge, ever call myself free?
I exhaled slowly, forcing the memories to retreat to the corners of my mind. This house was a graveyard of what once was. I couldn't let myself be consumed by it.
At the end of the hallway was a familiar door. I hesitated, my hand hovering over the doorknob. Then, summoning my resolve, I pushed it open.
My room. It looked almost untouched, as if time had frozen the moment I left. The faint scent of lavender lingered in the air, mixing with the musk of abandonment. The bed was still made with the purple linens I had chosen myself, the ones embroidered with delicate flowers. On the vanity sat rows of neatly arranged skincare and makeup products, covered in a thin film of dust. My favorite wooden hairbrush, worn smooth from years of use, rested exactly where I'd left it.
And there, on the nightstand, was the photo frame. Inside it was our family portrait—the same one that hung in the hall, only smaller. I stepped forward, my movements deliberate, and picked it up. My fingers brushed the cool glass as I stared at the faces within it. My mother's gentle smile, my father's steady gaze, my younger self's carefree expression. A wave of guilt and sorrow surged through me, almost bringing me to my knees.
If only I had been stronger, smarter, braver—maybe they wouldn't have died. Maybe Hybrasil would still stand as it once had.
Swallowing hard, I made a decision. I had to take the photo with me.
Carefully, I removed the back of the frame and slid the photo out, folding it neatly before tucking it into the pocket of my coat. I replaced the empty frame in the nightstand drawer, hiding it from view.
I looked around the room one last time. It had once been my sanctuary, my safe haven. Now it felt like a shell, stripped of warmth and purpose.
Without allowing myself to linger any longer, I left and headed toward the basement. That was the real reason I had come here—the Lee family's armory, hidden deep beneath the estate. If it was still intact, it could be the key to saving Tirfothuinn.
The staircase leading to the basement was dark and foreboding. With no power to light the way, the shadows seemed to stretch endlessly. Each step I took stirred up dust, the sound of my footsteps amplified by the silence around me.
Halfway down, I realized I could see nothing at all. The pitch blackness swallowed me whole, and I had no tools for illumination.
Suddenly, a light flickered ahead, stretching long shadows across the walls. My body stiffened as I recognized the silhouette it formed.
Someone was here.
My heart raced as I turned quickly. Chad stood at the top of the stairs, a flashlight steady in his hand. The beam of light fell on me, highlighting the unease I couldn't fully hide.
"You really are from Murias," Chad said, his tone tinged with amusement. "Always curious about what's beyond the walls."
I managed to force a small smile, using his comment to my advantage. "I guess I've always been like that."
"Does Mr. Edwards know you're so interested in the basement?" he asked, his words casual but carrying an edge.
My breath caught for a moment. Did he suspect something? Or was this another of his calculated tests?
"I…" I began, but Chad interrupted before I could say more.
"Relax," he said, descending the stairs toward me. "Let's go down together."
I nodded, keeping my face neutral. As he took the lead, lighting the way with his flashlight, I followed closely. Every step felt like a trial, each movement calculated to ensure I didn't betray my familiarity with the space.
"I know what you're thinking," Chad said suddenly, his voice breaking the silence. "Don't worry—I won't tell Mr. Edwards."
What did he mean by that? Did he know I planned to steal weapons for Tirfothuinn? Or was he hinting at something deeper—my identity as Lianora?
I didn't respond. Words felt too dangerous, and silence was my only defense.
We reached a door I recognized—a storage room that had once been left open at all times. Now it was sealed with a heavy lock. I stopped, staring at it.
"Why is this locked?" I asked, keeping my tone as casual as possible, though my curiosity was genuine. My eyes lingered on the heavy padlock that seemed so out of place in the otherwise abandoned estate.
Chad stopped and turned slightly, the beam of his flashlight casting long shadows across the walls. His expression was calm, unreadable as always. "What's the matter?" he asked, his tone neutral but laced with a subtle edge.
"Nothing," I said quickly, shaking my head and taking a step back. "It just stood out. Everything else here is wide open, but this door is locked. I was wondering… could this be the armory?"
For a moment, Chad's gaze flickered to the locked door before returning to me. His expression remained stoic, but there was something deliberate in the way he shifted the flashlight's beam away from the door. "You're not going in there," he said, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. "The armory is further ahead."
I forced myself to nod, keeping my features composed. "Alright," I murmured, pretending to accept his explanation.
But my thoughts were anything but calm. Why was this door locked in a place that had otherwise been left to decay? What was so important that it needed to be secured like this?
The weight of my suspicions pressed heavily on my chest, but I pushed them down, unwilling to risk exposing my thoughts. For now, I followed Chad as he continued down the corridor, the beam of his flashlight guiding the way.
Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that this locked door held secrets far more important than the armory ahead. Secrets I couldn't ignore.
For now, I had no choice but to leave it alone. But I wouldn't forget this place.