The Arven sun had already passed its zenith when Damon pushed open the heavy wooden door and entered the house he had just bought. The creak of the hinges echoed throughout the interior, raising a cloud of dust that made him cough immediately.

"Fantastic…" he muttered, waving his hand in front of his face. "I bought a damn dustbin."

The light streaming through the tall windows revealed the neglected interior—peeling walls, old furniture covered with sheets, cobwebs occupying the corners as if they were part of the decor. The wooden floor creaked with every step, and the air carried that dense, sweet smell of a place locked up for a long time.

Damon set the bundle he was carrying on the floor and looked around, assessing the space.

The house had two floors. On the ground floor, a small living room connected to a narrow kitchen, with a wooden staircase leading to the upper floor. There were three bedrooms upstairs—at least, according to the seller. The man had said the house was "cozy, ideal for those seeking silence."

The detail about the supposed ghosts came later, said with a nervous smile and such a large discount that Damon immediately became suspicious.

"One gold coin…" he repeated, shaking his head. "Too cheap."

He walked to the window and pulled open the shutters with a sharp tug. Light flooded the room, revealing particles of dust dancing in the air.

For a moment, he just watched—the quietness, the distant sound of the city, the gentle warmth of the sun beating on the aged wood. It wasn't much, but it was his.

He sighed and rolled up his sleeves.

"Alright. Let's get this over with."

He grabbed a bucket and a cloth and began what soon proved to be an epic battle against neglect. The dust seemed to multiply; each cleaned surface revealed another even worse. Damon cleaned with firm, disciplined movements—the same precision he used with his sword.

"Caerth would have said it's endurance training," he muttered between his teeth. "But this kind of training should be forbidden."

The sound of the bucket being dragged across the floor echoed through the house. He carefully climbed the stairs, the weight of his body making the steps creak. The upstairs was worse—the air heavier, the smell stronger. He opened the windows in each room and let the wind in.

One of the rooms had a ceiling stained with dampness, another was completely empty except for an old armchair turned towards the wall.

Damon straightened it and noticed something engraved in the wood of the armrest—an almost erased word: "Lya."

He frowned. "Must have belonged to the previous owner."

For a moment, he had the strange feeling that someone was watching him. The air seemed to change, cold enough to make his skin crawl. He turned slowly, but there was nothing. Just the empty room, the wind rustling the curtain, and the distant sound of city bells.

"Great. I'm already getting paranoid."

He went back downstairs and continued cleaning. After a few hours, the place began to look habitable. The dust had diminished, the floor showed the natural tone of the wood, and the kitchen now had enough space to prepare a meal.

He put water on to boil and slumped into one of the chairs, taking a deep breath.

The house still seemed too quiet.

He looked at the ceiling, where the wind gently swayed the chandelier. "A ghost, huh?" he said, as if speaking to the air. "If there's one around here, I hope it knows how to sweep. Because I'm not doing this again."

Nothing answered.

Damon let out a short laugh. "Good. At least they're polite."

While waiting for the water to boil, he took out the letter that Elizabeth had sent along with the purchase money. It was written in her usual impeccable and cold handwriting.

"The house is near the east gate of Arven. Simple, but discreet. Use the name Mirath only when necessary. And remember: even far away, you still carry the weight of our house. — E."

He folded the paper and put it away again. There was no affection in her words, but there was purpose. And that, for Elizabeth, already meant a lot.

The kettle whistled. Damon poured the tea and leaned against the window, watching the movement outside. The neighborhood was quiet—a mix of merchants and low-ranking soldiers, people who woke up early and went to bed early. The kind of place where nobody asked questions.

Exactly what he needed.

While he was drinking, he heard a faint creak coming from upstairs. The sound of something moving—discreet, but clear.

He put down the cup, picked up the sword leaning against the wall, and slowly went upstairs. Each step creaked, and the air seemed colder with each step.

When he reached the corridor, the sound stopped. Only the wind whistled through the cracks in the windows.

Damon went through the rooms one by one—nothing. When he reached the last one, the one with the armchair, he stopped. The piece of furniture was now turned back towards the wall.

He stood still for a few seconds, observing. The silence was almost absolute. Then he gave a half-smile.

"If you're going to scare me, you'll have to do better than that."

He straightened the armchair again, left the room, and closed the door.

Back on the ground floor, he dropped his sword in the corner and sat down again. Exhaustion was beginning to weigh on him.

"Three rooms, one of them haunted, a kitchen and a living room that smell of mold... all for one gold coin. A great deal, Damon. Congratulations."

Despite the sarcasm, there was a certain relief in his voice. For the first time in months, he was in a place that was neither a training field nor a military tent. It was a house. A shelter.

Outside, the sun was beginning to set, painting the walls with orange hues. Damon finished his tea, got up, and lit a lamp. The fire filled the room with a soft light.

He walked to the door, checked the latch, and closed the windows. As he passed through the living room again, he looked at the ceiling and said, in a calm, tired voice:

"If you're going to stay, stay quiet. I have work tomorrow."

He went up to the main bedroom and threw himself onto the makeshift bed—just a thin mattress and a blanket. His body ached, but his mind was finally beginning to relax.

Outside, the wind whispered through the trees. The house creaked, slowly, as if breathing.

For an instant, Damon thought he heard something—a faint murmur, a distant laugh. He opened his eyes, listened... nothing.

Only silence.

He turned on his side and murmured, before falling asleep:

"Ghost or not... I'm still the one who lives here now." …

The next day dawned cold and foggy over Arven. Damon had been awake for hours, stacking old books, cleaning shelves, and trying, somehow, to transform that dilapidated house into something minimally habitable.

The open windows let in the damp morning air and the distant sound of carriages passing on the main street. The smell of damp wood and soap mingled in the air.

"If I'd known that being a knight also involved cleaning, I would have stayed in the forests with the crazy old man," he muttered, wiping the sweat from his brow.

He pushed a table into the corner, straightened an armchair, rearranged the weapons leaning against the wall—the makeshift ice spear, two simple swords, and a throwing dagger.

The place was beginning to take shape. A home, or something close to it.

Damon straightened up, ran a hand through his hair, and looked around, satisfied enough to let out a grunt of approval. He was about to go upstairs when he heard loud knocking on the door.

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

Three decisive, quick, and impatient knocks.

He frowned. "Who the hell knocks like that at this hour?"

Three more knocks, now more intense.

"Coming, damn it!" he grumbled, taking the stairs two at a time. He walked to the entrance, wiping his hands on his trousers.

As soon as he turned the doorknob and opened the door—he was hit by a golden blur.

"Damon!"

The feminine voice, clear and full of emotion, hit him at the same time as her body. Damon stumbled, lost his balance, and fell on his back on the floor, taking the woman with him who clung to him as if she had just been reunited with someone long lost.

The air escaped his lungs in a groan. "But what—"

Before he could finish, he smelled the familiar perfume—light, sweet, unmistakable. "Aria?"

The woman pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. Her blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders, her face illuminated by a radiant smile. She was exactly as he remembered her—perhaps a little more mature, but with the same mischievous sparkle in her eyes.

"Finally!" she said, her voice a mixture of laughter and relief. "That wretched woman wouldn't let us come!"

"Aria… I—" he replied, trying to catch his breath. "C-can you let go of me? I still need to breathe."

She blinked, blushing slightly. "Oh… of course."

She stood up, adjusting her skirt and the traveling cloak she was wearing. Damon sat for a moment, massaging his aching back, before finally looking at the open doorway.

And he froze.

There, standing in the doorway, was Esther.

Her blue hair fell straight over her shoulders, and her blue eyes observed him with that same calculated coldness that always left him speechless. Her expression was neutral—as if she wasn't at all surprised to see him lying on the ground with Aria on top of him.

"I see you're still getting yourself into embarrassing situations," she said, without emotion.

Damon raised an eyebrow. "Oh come on, don't you think you're being a little... cold? Come on, I know you're happy to see me. You even missed me, right?"

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