It's been one day, and I'm already certain: I have no idea how this man functions.
The mansion is a chaotic labyrinth, much like the man himself—dark, brooding, and so unnecessarily extravagant it feels like a joke no one else is in on. Every inch of it reminds me of home. The Emberthorn Dukedom.
The grand arches, glittering chandeliers, intricately carved railings—nearly identical to the ones I grew up with. Even the windows have the same diamond-shaped etching in the glass. I half expect to turn a corner and see my mother, Verena Emberthorn, sweeping into the room, sharp smile and calculating gaze intact.
It's unsettling.
