In the afternoon, a courier arrived with a heavy envelope—legal updates from Richard Vance’s office in London. The House of Moretti was a fading echo now, a series of court dates and asset liquidations that happened in another world. Richard had done his job well; the valley was a legal fortress that the past could not penetrate.
As the sun began to dip behind the jagged peaks, the family gathered in the sunroom for the final hour of light. This was their ritual. Siena sat at the loom, the rhythmic thwack-slide of the shuttle providing the heartbeat of the room. Julian sat at the drafting table, watching the way the colors of the Munich glass moved across the floor.
River sat at his father’s feet, drawing his own "blueprints" on a scrap of vellum, while Elara danced in the flickering
