I decided that asking my father would be suicide. Imagine an eight-year-old walking up to you asking questions about something valuable you’ve just lost. It wouldn’t be brave—it would be suicidal. He wasn’t a man who welcomed questions, especially not when they brushed against his pride.

  So I went to the only other option.

  My mother.

  Her room was soaked in soft amber light, the curtains drawn half-open to let in the afternoon sun. The scent of lavender and old perfume hung in the air like a ghost of youth. She was seated at her vanity, delicately applying rouge with the care of a woman who never intended to age.

  When she noticed me in the doorway, she smiled at my reflection in the mirror. “Hi, Elliot!”

  I stepped in quietly and pulled up a small velvet chair beside her, my feet barely touching the floor.

  “What does the family jewel mean to you?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  She blinked. For a moment, I thought she might deflect. But then her lips curled into a nostalgic grin.

  “Interested in the family now, are we?” she teased.

  I grinned back. “Well, you could say that.”

  She set her brush down and turned slightly, her eyes distant. “The family jewel is our most prized heirloom. It’s been passed down for ten generations—since the days of Manistro Valens and his beloved Ellens. It was forged as a gift of unity, a promise for peace after the Great Demonic War devastated the south. That jewel saw us through darkness... and reminded people that even ruin could glitter with hope.”

  There was a far-off tone in her voice. Whether it was sincere or something she rehearsed for guests, I couldn’t quite tell.

  I thanked her, stood, and made my way to the door. She called after me, “Try not to worry, darling. I’m sure it’ll turn up.”

  I didn’t answer.

  As I stepped into the hall, the air felt colder. My thoughts were sharper now, pieces slotting together.

  The alarms set up after the war would have detected any demonic presence in the mansion. That meant this wasn’t some ancient evil come to reclaim a cursed relic.

  No, this was something simpler.

  Someone wanted money. Or power. Or leverage.

  And whoever it was had the discipline to steal the symbol of our house without leaving a trace.

  There were two places left that could offer me answers—the library, with its endless stacks of forgotten family history... and the crime scene itself.

  It was time to dig deeper.