Henri began descending the spiral staircase, his footsteps echoing through the vast space. Sir Eadric's absence was noted but not dwelled upon. His gaze drifted to a large indent on the outside of the door.
Elara.
"Dad, we went to Richard's," Anna began, her fingers tracing the elaborate banister. The cool metal grounded her, a stark contrast to the whirlwind of thoughts in her mind. "Uncle—"
Henri cut her off with a gentle wave of his hand, his eyes scanning the artworks along the wall.
"Yeah, yeah. So anyway, he had this one painting. The woman in it... she's from our family, right?" Her voice carried a hint of weariness.
Henri's brow furrowed as he followed her gaze to the painting. "Didn't you already know that?"
His hand brushed the frame as they passed.
The artwork depicted a solitary sword. Its craftsmanship was exquisite—gleaming with an otherworldly hue, its hilt wrapped in worn dark leather, the crossguard etched with the intricate design of a roaring phoenix.
"I mean, yes," Anna replied, eyes still fixed on it. She traced the sword's outline just millimeters from the canvas. "Other than the trade between the families, and how I might be traded—"
"It doesn't work like that anymore," Henri said firmly, his gaze snapping back to her. His voice carried the weight of finality, like closing a book on an outdated tradition.
Anna's hand reached out, gripping the edge of her father's coat.
"Alright," she said, peering over the railing. The floor below seemed distant.
A wave of vertigo gripped her momentarily. She stepped back, steadying herself against him. "Tell me the story of the woman," she demanded, tugging at his coat with childlike insistence.
Henri chuckled, his fatigue momentarily forgotten.
"Alright," he said, clearing his throat.
He drew a deep breath, as if preparing to dive into deep, cold water. "She's..." He paused, searching for the words. His eyes drifted, distant. "Celeste Maris or Mortimer," he said finally, his voice tinged with reverence.
"In my opinion, her husband had no interesting qualities," he continued, tone dismissive. Anna raised a brow but stayed quiet. "The Sage of that time thought it necessary, for whatever reason. Due to the circumstances of that quest, one clause—its exact wording long lost—required marriage."
"Ill thoughts," he murmured, cautioning her. She exhaled slowly, relaxing her grip.
"It was an extremely long time ago. No one knows for certain," Henri continued, his voice softening. "But one thing is clear: the de Meaux kept records of her. They called her 'God in human form.' Unlike the usual red hair that was the norm of the family, she had jet-black hair."
"Guess that gene skipped our generation," Anna quipped, amused, twirling a lock of her very much not-red hair.
Henri tried to continue, but Anna interrupted, skepticism showing.
"She didn't seem that special in the painting at Uncle Richard." She gestured to the walls around them.
"Your modern slang," Henri sighed, shaking his head with a mix of exasperation and fondness.
"She was special. She wielded power like sunlight through stained glass – concentrated, transformative. She made de Meaux great." Without warning, he pivoted and leapt onto the broad railing, balancing with the unnerving ease of a tightrope walker against the dizzying drop.
.0Anna brushing her hair, still focused on the frustratingly diminished legacy, pressed on, oblivious to his perilous perch. "Yeah, but why'd we fall so low in the pyramid rankings?" she asked, the bitterness sharp as citron in her voice. "From God-in-human-form to… this?"
"Maybe we didn't have enough potential," Henri replied with a grin that didn't quite reach his tired eyes. Then, in a move that stopped Anna's breath cold, he simply stepped off.
"DAD!" The scream ripped from her throat, raw and instinctive. Her hand shot out, grasping only empty air where his coat had been.
Her heart hammered against her ribs like a frantic bird. Below, Henri plummeted past the spiralling staircase, a dark shape against the kaleidoscope of ancestral portraits lining the shaft.
The paintings blurred into streaks of gilded frames and somber faces, a dizzying whirl of history and judgement.
One portrait seemed to hold focus for a terrifying instant – a woman with eyes like chips of obsidian, her expression unreadable, her gaze seeming to track Henri's fall through space and time itself, a silent, chilling witness.
He landed with a heavy, resonant thud on the polished marble floor far below, the sound echoing unnaturally loud in the sudden silence.
He rolled smoothly with the impact and sprang up, brushing dust from his coat with infuriating nonchalance. He tilted his head back, squinting up the dizzying height.
"Yap is what they say, right?" he called up, his voice bouncing cheerfully off the stone walls. "All that youthful energy, chattering away?"
"Not how you use it!" Anna yelled down, her voice still tight with the echo of panic. Relief warred with fury, leaving her trembling. She clutched the cold stone railing, her knuckles red. "And don't you dare do that again!"
Henri's eyes sparkled with mischief, a youthful spark gleaming in them.
"Why not? Life's an adventure. Sometimes you just have to leap—literally." He swept an arm across the garden before them. "Now, shall we explore this paradise?"
Anna descended the remaining stairs at a near-run, her boots clicking rapidly on the stone. She burst into the garden's embrace moments later, her cheeks flushed not just from exertion but from the lingering shock.
The vibrant assault of color and scent was jarring after the heart-stopping plunge she'd just witnessed.
She looked at him, seeing not a vault of secrets and tradition, but her father: brave, reckless, and hers.
"So," she said, matching his grin, "any more family secrets in this garden? Maybe a magical tree? A fountain of youth?"
Henri laughed, the sound rich and full.
"Oh, I've got one. The original ancestor of the de Meaux... de Lorraine... and the rest."
"Original ancestor?" Anna repeated, eyebrows raised.