I opened the door of the old house. A whisper of the past brushed my skin; a shiver flickered along my spine.
My birthplace - now a shrine of silence. “The king is dead - long live the queen,” I murmured.
I moved deliberately through the hallway, the scent of amber coiling around me.
My father’s essence, buried only an hour ago.
A cracked chandelier gleamed faintly, its crystals catching the last light of a world long faded.
No tears. There was no need; we hadn’t spoken in years. They had dried long ago.


Slowly I ascended the marble staircase, a portrait of my younger self staring down.
Not welcoming, but accusing. He had shaped me in his shadow. I, the puppet of his will.
The door gave way to my father’s dim room. The amber hung heavy, clinging like his will.
Everything meticulously ordered. Structure where chaos once reigned in him. I closed it softly.

The weight of his absence lingered. The corridor stretched to my mother’s long-abandoned room.
A faint trace of champagne and roses hung in the air; her golden hairbrush glowed with an eerie hue.
Dust cloaked every surface. He had never returned here, I realized.
Pictures adorned the walls: her portrait, a starlit beauty. Timeless, yet drowned in despair and bubbling glasses.
She died too young, too sad. 
Outside, a raven cawed. Its cry too sharp, too knowing.

I drifted into my old room, a princess’s domain turned ice palace. White and rose, all frozen lace; crafted to impress,
never to comfort. My eyes swept the space, finding no memory to claim. As I descended the stairs,
my father’s voice sliced through the silence: “If you go, you are no longer my daughter.” 
My reply echoed back, steady: “I never was - not truly.”
Somewhere, a god smiled; his laughter at my father’s words a distant hum.

I moved through the salons where once a true king had sipped tea and war plans were laid,
but I was drawn to the library. The only place I had ever loved in this house.
A faint warmth pulsed from the shelves, as if unseen eyes watched me.
My father’s portrait loomed on the wall, stern dark eyes following. His sharp gaze, proud and preying.
Beside him my grandfather - the former Duke - white-haired, blue-eyed, gentler.
A lion of ancient times. I heard his voice, reading to me of Troy and the gods, my name a prayer on his lips:
Cassandra - like her, cursed with truth.

I remembered myself as a small, solitary child, teaching my own hand the craft that build worlds.
Nights when I curled beneath the desk, a stolen candle flickering, as I traced Odysseus’s voyages.
My only escape from the silence beyond the door. My world was stories, not this house.
I was a knight at Arthur’s round, a queen of Avalon, a guest in Prospero’s tempest, a witness to Denmark’s prince.
I walked Troy’s streets, rode like the Amazons - a roar wild and free in my blood.
And somewhere between dust and dream, another presence stirred. The breath of those who had always waited.


At last the gates of Olympus opened and welcomed me. A mortal child standing with light in darkness around her.
One ignited a fire that shaped me like a blade; another gave wisdom beyond my age.
One’s shadows caressed me; another revealed love no mortal could seek.
Gifts of love born from their own solitude. Visions of truth, a fire to endure, a voice to defy.
All anchored in me, living, breathing, growing. Their blessings glowed within me;
but light is never without darkness lurking near.


At night, my grandmother’s whispers haunted: “The child is doomed.” Mirrors were covered when I passed.
They feared I might draw pure darkness; their voices trembled. I saw their eyes, our bloodline’s curse
etched in their minds. A pact sealed with blood and shadow long ago, binding them.
Love was absent: no kiss, no lullaby. My hollow heart seemed a vessel for darker forces;
yet unseen to them, it was already bound to the gods and their gifts.

And here, in the library where every secret of mine had once been laid bare.
In this sacred place, a gift awaited, now finally mine to claim. My fingers traced the shelves and found my first journal,
hidden all these years. Inside - a white feather, its tips glowing with gold - a relic from the midnight garden,
waiting to shatter what must be gone. My fingers trembled, but a whisper of my name held me steady.

The air beyond the window shimmered, heavy with a promise older than the house itself. 
I stepped outside; the raven was silent now. A god waited, his presence a warm tide.
“It is time,” he said, pressing a kiss to my forehead, love blazing in his eyes.
My hands finding his, warm against my skin. A token of comfort.
A silent promise of what was to come. I stood between what was buried and what would rise.

Wings unfurled from my shoulders. Vast and luminous. Born again.
The house faded, its shadows dissolving, as I rose.
Somewhere, the gods held their breath. And smiled.