The air in the gallery is thick with the smell of dust and old oil. I hold the grimoire in my hands, its leather cover cold and cracked against my palms. My flashlight flickers, casting long, shaky shadows over the rows of faces staring at me from their frames. They are all my ancestors, but only one of them matters.
I stop in front of the largest portrait. Duke Julian. He stands in a field of dark velvet, his eyes so sharp they seem to cut through the canvas. He is beautiful in a way that feels dangerous. His lips are pulled into a slight, arrogant smirk, and his hand rests on the hilt of a sword as if he’s just waiting for a reason to draw it. The legends say he was a monster of a man, a hedonist who broke every law of God and nature. Looking at him now, my skin prickles. I’ve spent my
