The study no longer resembled the quiet sanctuary of Vale's memories. An hour had passed since his arrival, and now chaos reigned. Books lay torn across the polished floor, some flung open, others reduced to curled, crumpled fragments. The shelves had been gutted, tomes ripped from their homes, and ancient papers drifted through the air like autumn leaves caught in a storm. Even the once-pristine writing desk had been flipped, drawers ripped from their sockets and their contents strewn wide.
Vale stood amidst the wreckage, breath shallow, jaw tight.
His fingers trembled—not with exhaustion, but frustration.
He had searched every corner of the room. Every locked drawer had been pried open, every book spine checked for hollow compartments, every floorboard tapped for hidden panels. Yet nothing—not a single clue—spoke of his uncle's fate or intentions. Just records of old land holdings, expense logs, and letters long devoid of relevance.
