The house felt different after the council left.

  Not quieter.

  Heavier.

  Like the walls had heard the conversation and were now deciding what to do with it.

  Aurora stood in the hallway for several minutes after the door closed, watching the space where the elders had been. The wood floor still held the faint prints of their damp shoes from the morning fog.

  Six days.

  The number sat inside her head like a slow drumbeat.

  Behind her, Gideon exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair.

  “This is wrong,” he said.

  No one answered.

  Darian leaned against the banister, staring toward the eastern wing of the house. The corridor that led there seemed darker than usual, though the lamps were lit the same as always.

  “The eastern room,” he muttered.

  Aurora followed his gaze.

  The door at the end of that corridor had not been opened in years.

  Not since their father died.

  Her mother straightened slowly against the wall.

  “We should begin,” she said.

  Her voice sounded older.

  Older than Aurora had ever heard it.

  Elara appeared from the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on a cloth. She had clearly been listening.

  “You’re really going to do it?” she asked.

  Their mother looked at her, tired but firm.

  “The council has spoken.”

  “That doesn’t make them right,” Elara snapped.

  Darian nodded once. “She’s right.”

  But their mother only turned toward Aurora.

  “This was always coming.”

  Aurora didn’t argue.

  Because that was the truth no one liked to say aloud.

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  Every Ashbourne child grew up knowing it.

  The Binding chose from the bloodline.

  And eventually—

  The choice came.

  Her mother moved down the hallway slowly, each step careful but determined.

  Aurora followed.

  The others did too.

  The eastern corridor felt colder than the rest of the house. The windows there faced the forest, and the morning light struggled through the tall black trees beyond the hill.

  The door waited at the end.

  Plain oak.

  Unremarkable.

  But no one had touched it in years.

  Her mother paused before it, resting a hand against the handle as though feeling for something beneath the metal.

  “I thought we would have more time,” she whispered.

  Aurora felt a strange flicker of sympathy.

  Not for herself.

  For her mother.

  Because this moment was not the beginning of Aurora’s burden.

  It was the end of her mother’s protection.

  The door opened with a long, tired creak.

  Dust greeted them first.

  Thick.

  Undisturbed.

  The room smelled faintly of old paper and cedar.

  Aurora stepped inside.

  The study looked almost exactly as it had when their father was alive.

  Bookshelves lined the walls. A large desk sat near the window. Papers still lay scattered across its surface as if he had simply stepped out for a moment and forgotten to return.

  No one spoke.

  Gideon walked to the window and pushed aside the heavy curtain.

  Outside, the forest stretched dark and endless.

  Darian ran a finger across the desk, leaving a clean line through the dust.

  “You’re telling me this room hosted the first Binding?” he said.

  Their mother nodded slowly.

  “Our ancestor used it as his study. The ritual chamber beneath the house did not exist then.”

  Aurora’s eyes moved across the room.

  Something about the air here felt—

  Still.

  Not oppressive.

  Not threatening.

  Just waiting.

  Elara stepped inside last.

  “This place feels wrong,” she said quietly.

  Their mother began removing the books from the shelves.

  “We must strip the room,” she said. “Everything except the bed.”

  “There’s no bed,” Gideon pointed out.

  “There will be.”

  Aurora watched as her mother placed the books carefully into a wooden crate.

  Not throwing them.

  Not rushing.

  Handling them like fragile memories.

  “The council said mirrors must be covered,” Elara said.

  “There are none,” Darian replied.

  Aurora’s eyes lifted.

  There was one.

  Small.

  Round.

  Mounted above the fireplace.

  Dusty enough that it almost disappeared against the wall.

  She stepped toward it.

  For a moment she simply looked at her reflection.

  Pale.

  Focused.

  Uncertain in ways she rarely allowed herself to feel.

  Behind her, the others moved through the room, clearing shelves and folding old papers into boxes.

  Aurora reached up and wiped the dust from the mirror with her sleeve.

  The glass cleared.

  Her reflection sharpened.

  And for a brief second—

  She thought the room behind her looked deeper than it should.

  Not darker.

  Deeper.

  As if the reflection held more space than the room itself.

  Aurora blinked.

  The image returned to normal.

  Just the study.

  Just her family.

  Just the house preparing to give her away.

  She turned back toward them.

  “We should bring the bed up before nightfall,” she said.

  Gideon frowned. “You’re actually going to sleep here?”

  “That’s what they said.”

  Darian crossed his arms.

  “You don’t have to follow every instruction.”

  Aurora met his eyes calmly.

  “If I’m going to face this ritual,” she said, “I want to understand every part of it.”

  Elara shook her head.

  “You’re treating it like a puzzle.”

  “Because fear doesn’t solve puzzles.”

  Their mother stopped packing books.

  “Aurora.”

  She looked up.

  “Yes?”

  Her mother’s expression softened in a way it rarely did.

  “Sometimes fear is the only thing warning us not to open a door.”

  Aurora glanced once more at the mirror above the fireplace.

  At her own steady reflection.

  “At this point,” she said quietly, “the door is already open.”

  Outside, the wind moved through the forest.

  And somewhere beyond the trees—

  Something patient continued to wait.

  Six days remained.