I wonder if this was my mother's room, before she left. Before she met my father, had me, and died when I was too young to remember her face.
The thought sits heavy in my chest, so I push it away and focus on getting dressed.
Downstairs, the house is silent.
I half-expected to find Cadeon somewhere. Maybe standing guard or brooding dramatically or whatever ancient vampires do in the morning, but the rooms I pass are empty. The sitting room from last night, with its dying fire. A dining room that looks like it hasn't been used in years. A library that makes my fingers itch to explore but probably contains fewer "how to grow the perfect tomato" books and more "advanced battle magic for the discerning warmonger."
I find the kitchen at the back of the house, and it's... actually kind of perfect.
Large windows letting in the morning light. A wood-burning stove that's probably original to the house but looks well-maintained. Copper pots hanging from hooks. Dried herbs bundled along one wall, though they're so old they've probably lost most of their potency. The counters are slate, worn smooth by decades of use.
This room feels lived-in. Loved, even.
I run my hand along the counter and feel the faintest whisper of magic. Kitchen magic. Hearth magic. Someone cooked here with intention, with care.
My mother? My grandmother, before she became the battle-mage everyone fears?
I'll probably never know.
There's a kettle on the stove and tea in the cupboard: black tea, loose leaf, the expensive. I get a fire going in the stove and set the kettle to boil.
While I wait, I explore.
The pantry is well-stocked, which surprises me. Preserved foods, mostly. Jams and pickled vegetables and cured meats. A few fresh things that must have been delivered recently: bread, cheese, winter apples. Did Cadeon arrange this? Does he even eat?
The thought of an ancient vampire carefully stocking a pantry for a mage he's never met is oddly touching.
Or maybe my grandmother had a standing order with the village. That seems more likely.
The kettle whistles. I make the tea, add honey from a jar that smells absolutely lovely, , and carry my cup toward what I'm pretty sure is grandmother's study. At least it used to be when I lived here.
Time to figure out what exactly I've inherited.
The study is exactly what I expected and somehow worse.
More weapons. A desk that could double as a fortification. Bookshelves crammed with grimoires, battle strategies, and what appears to be a complete collection of "Magical Warfare Through the Ages." The morning light streaming through the windows only makes it all look more austere.
But it's the desk I'm drawn to.
Grandmother's desk. One of many, but she used this one the most, if I recall correctly. It’s organized with military precision, with everything at right angles, not a speck of dust, a place for everything and everything in its place. There's a leather-boundjournal sitting in the exact center, and I know without opening it that this is what I need to see.
I sit in her chair that feels too big for me, and it makes me feel like a child playing dress-up, and open the journal.
Her handwriting is exactly as I remember. Sharp. Jagged. Rigid.
The entries are dated, going back decades. The earliest ones I can find are from about fifty years ago. I flip through, scanning.
*The familiar transfers to me upon Mother's death. Cadeon has served House Ashwood for 160 years. He is efficient. Reliable. I will maintain the bond as Mother did.*
*Cadeon dispatched to the border conflict. Three enemy mages neutralized. Asset performed efficiently.*
*The vampire requires less maintenance than previous familiars. Optimal.*
I flip forward, watching the years pass. The entries are all the same: clinical observations, tactical reports, notes about "the asset's" performance.
*Cadeon's combat effectiveness remains unchanged after 200 years of service. Remarkable durability.*
Asset. Tool. Weapon.
