And Elara followed him deeper into the estate.
The corridor swallowed them in a hush that felt almost reverent. Panels of dark wood lined the walls, each carved with quiet, precise patterns—geometric spirals, tiny floral etchings, symbols that made her pulse stir with recognition she couldn't explain. The candles flickered as they passed, bending subtly toward the Overseer as though the flames themselves acknowledged him.
Elara kept her distance—two careful steps behind him. She could feel him even when she wasn't looking at him; his presence had gravity, subtle but impossible to ignore.
Mara trailed them at a greater distance, silent and quick-footed, her gray dress brushing the floor in soft sighs.
Elara glanced back once—Mara's eyes flicked up to hers for a split second, urgent with something unspoken—before dropping again just as quickly.
The Overseer turned down another hallway. This one was brighter, the windows narrow and tall, letting in slices of the morning fog as if the outside world were leaking into the estate.
"We keep the guest wing prepared at all times," he said, not looking back. "But this room is specifically arranged for you."
A ripple of unease threaded through her ribs. "Arranged how?"
"You'll see."
His voice held the faintest note of anticipation—as though he wanted her to feel the surprise, the disorientation. As though it pleased him.
They stopped at a door near the end of the hall. It was plain compared to the others—simple wood, simple frame—yet Elara felt the estate hold its breath around it.
The Overseer placed his hand on the door and pushed it open.
She stepped inside.
And froze.
The room was… warm. The only warm place she'd seen so far. Soft light filtered through linen curtains, spilling across a bed dressed in cream and muted gold. A small sitting area stood by the window, a wooden desk topped with sketchbooks, pencils, brushes—her tools.
Her tools.
Her exact tools.
The same brand of pencils she had used for years.
The same brush set she had bought last spring.
The same pigment jars—identical labels, identical fading ink on the lids.
Her suitcase handle slipped from her fingers and hit the floor with a dull thunk.
Her breath left her in a shallow exhale. "How did you—?"
The Overseer stepped past her, moving with the confidence of someone entering a space he owned completely.
"We've studied your work," he said softly. "Your methods. Your preferences."
His eyes slid across the room, lingering on the desk. "Accuracy matters."
Elara shook her head slowly. "This is… specific. You couldn't have known all this from my restorations."
"No."
He smiled faintly. "Not from those."
She felt her skin tighten. "Then from where?"
He didn't answer immediately. He crossed to the bookshelf and ran a finger along the spines—each one titles she recognized. Books she'd read in her early years studying restoration. Books she'd owned. Books she'd lost when she moved.
And one—one in the center—was her old notebook.
The one that had disappeared years ago.
She stepped forward, voice cracking. "That's mine."
"Yes."
He lifted it, dusted off an invisible speck, and offered it to her. "We kept it safe."
Her fingertips trembled as she accepted it, heart pounding so hard she felt it in her throat. She opened the notebook slowly. Her handwriting spilled across the first page—sketches of fresco fragments from her first apprenticeship, half-formed ideas, charcoal smudges.
She stared up at him, unable to contain the raw confusion. "How did you get this? It went missing—"
"The estate collects what it needs," the Overseer said quietly. "And what belongs to those we choose."
"Choose?" she whispered.
"Yes," he replied, stepping closer, his voice lowering to something almost intimate. "You were not hired, Elara. You were selected."
Her heart thundered. "Selected for what?"
He held her gaze with an intensity that made her breath catch. "For a task only you can perform."
Behind him, Mara stood in the doorway, face pale, eyes downcast—but her hands were clenched, knuckles white, as if bracing for a storm Elara didn't yet see.
Elara swallowed, throat dry. "What task?"
The Overseer studied her for a long moment—evaluating, reading every line of her expression. Then he spoke, voice low and calm, like a verdict delivered:
"To restore something far older… and far more dangerous… than any work you've touched before."
Elara's grip tightened on the notebook.
Dangerous.
The word echoed through the room like a whispered warning.
The Overseer stepped back, his voice returning to its composed cadence. "Mara will show you the bathing room and bring your breakfast shortly. Afterward, I will take you to see the piece."
Elara stood silent, pulse racing, caught between dread and curiosity.
Mara bowed her head and stepped aside, her voice barely above a breath. "Miss Vance, if you'll follow me…"
The Overseer lingered a moment longer, watching Elara with unreadable intent.
Then he turned and vanished into the hall like a shadow slipping behind a curtain.
Elara stared around the room—at the familiar brushes, at her resurrected notebook, at the unsettling evidence that this estate had reached into her past long before she stepped inside.
She had been expected.
Prepared for.
Studied.
Chosen.
And she had no idea what, exactly, she had been chosen to restore.