I was back in the decrepit, dilapidated, chronically neglected mansion.

To its credit—or more likely Isaac's—it didn't look like a murder scene anymore. The broken furniture had been dragged out, shattered glass swept up, and most of the rotting decorations tossed. It still reeked of wet wood and long-dead opulence, but the bones of the place were there. Bruised and cracked, sure. But not broken.

Amazing what removing a few decades of grime and ghost-vibes could do.

I wandered through what passed for a hallway, ducking under a half-fallen beam, and found Fractal—currently in her human form—speaking with V and Cordelia.

Fractal was mid-ramble, her arms gesturing in loops as she animatedly explained something probably arcane. V leaned back against a wall, eyes half-lidded, twirling a throwing knife between his fingers. Cordelia was off to the side with her arms crossed, watching the conversation with a sharp, unreadable look—half-bored, half-evaluating.

That look was unsettling. Like she could see my intentions folded between my bones.

"Where's Ten?" I asked, approaching them.

"Still outside," V replied lazily. "She's doing terrain checks. Mapping out where the hills rise and drop, figuring out chokepoints."

"Isn't that your job?" I raised an eyebrow. "You know, traps, perimeter defense, explosive overkill?"

"Yeah, and that's why I'm in here," he said. "I work best when I know where people are most likely to step. Ten's fast, detail-oriented, and doesn't whine about thornbushes. She scopes. I build."

"…And I'm paying you for this?"

V's smirk was barely a twitch. "You were. I stopped tracking your debt. Consider it net-zero. Where else am I going to get trained by Domini without signing away my soul? Besides, Fractal and Temptation keep me humble."

"I do not intend to humble you," Fractal chimed sweetly. "Only to break your spine if you say anything perverted again."

"Same difference," Cordelia muttered.

I glanced over at her. She was still giving me that look. Quietly judging. Like she'd already finished a full psychological profile based on the way I breathed.

"…What?"

"Nothing," she said with a slight smirk.

I didn't believe her.

"And just to clarify," she added, "I'm not here on your dime. Your uncle's the one footing the bill. Apparently he thinks you'd get yourself killed without a dedicated psyker nearby."

"Which is fair," V said. "Honestly, we're just trying to make sure the protagonist of this nightmare doesn't walk into another collapsing temple full of cursed ink."

"I was lured," I protested.

"You were warned," Fractal corrected.

"She was luring me," I clarified, pointing at her.

Fractal blinked innocently. "And what a lovely time we had."

Cordelia rolled her eyes. "Whatever the case, this place isn't cursed. Just… emotionally unstable."

"Like me," V offered.

"More like emotionally radioactive," Cordelia replied. "It's old. Something big happened here. Magic used to flow through these halls like veins. Battle magic. Probably divine. Now it's all static and echo."

"So what, the land has trauma?" I asked.

"Exactly that."

Terrific. My estate had feelings.

Fractal hooked her arm through mine. "We'll fix it. Bit by bit. With traps, plants, music, and lots of controlled explosions."

"You make it sound like we're hosting a garden party, not bracing for an inter-realm conflict."

"That too," V said. "But survival's easier when the base doesn't look like a murder mystery waiting to happen."

"And besides," Fractal said, giving my arm a squeeze, "we're here now. This is ours, not just yours."

I looked around the room—at the empty shelves, the cracked floorboards, the patches of wall where light filtered in through missing planks.

It wasn't perfect.

But it was something.

And it was ours.

***

Soon, I had guests.

And by guests, I mean an invasion.

It started with my mother.

Or, more precisely, a dozen of her clones. Juliet Duarte never visited—she arrived. She hit me like a tidal wave of perfume, sobs, and flurrying skirts. One clone was crying. Another was laughing. A third was running her fingers over my cheeks, tsking at the state of my skin. A fourth somehow had a full roasted bird in hand and was muttering something about feeding me up again. Somewhere in the chaos, I got hugged no less than twelve times.

She was everywhere. I hadn't even blinked and already three of her were cleaning, one was redecorating, and another was whispering something threatening into the ear of a dusty old portrait that might've been cursed.

Then came the wave of my siblings.

Eight of them, in total. Each a whirlwind in their own right.

Katarina was first. She didn't speak—just swept through the front door, eyes already scanning the entryway like it was a battlefield. No hello. No warmth. Just a soft "Hmph," before disappearing deeper into the estate. I would find chalk marks on the walls later. Coded messages. Security flaws. Probably ways to kill me in my sleep just in case.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Marybelle followed soon after, gliding across the cracked tiles with a grace that somehow didn't get dirt on her heels. She brought a chessboard and two chairs. Set them up at the least-destroyed table. Sat down and waited. She didn't even look at me. Just tapped a pawn against the board once—your move.

Morgan arrived like a marching battalion. Still in his military uniform, he didn't greet anyone so much as inspect the structure. "I'll need to see the basement. Do we have one?" he asked within the first minute. Then grabbed a lantern and vanished toward the back halls. I assumed I'd get a status report by nightfall. Possibly with threat levels.

Gabby walked in next with a drink already in hand and a scandalous story halfway out of his mouth. "—and obviously, she knew I was lying, but that made it even better." He kissed the air near my face twice, winked at two of my mother's clones, and loudly declared the estate had "gothic potential."

Jester didn't walk. She cartwheeled through a broken window.

"I love what you've done with the place," she said while juggling three glowing orbs that pulsed neon with each word. "Cursed chic. Very en vogue. Do you think the ghosts here are single?"

"...There are no ghosts here," I tried.

"Yet," she whispered, already halfway into the walls.

D.D. brought honey. He always brought honey. He set it down on a mostly-stable table, nodded at me, and gave Eliza—a big, gentle Morpheus Bee—permission to explore. She hovered peacefully around the ruins like she owned the place.

Red stepped in last, heels clicking, her eyes practically glowing in the shadows. "I had to reroute four delivery routes to be here," she said, flopping into an old armchair like it was a throne. "You owe me, so much wine."

I didn't have time to reply before the final arrivals strolled in.

My father, Hubert Duarte, didn't say hello. Instead, he pulled a measuring tape from his coat, looked around, and muttered, "Rotten beams. Roof's uneven. But surprisingly solid foundation. We can work with this."

I blinked. "This is your first time here too, right?"

He nodded distractedly. "Yes, yes. But one must document. For the record."

Then came Uncle Rodrick, all swagger and smirk, entering like he owned the place despite the cobwebs trying to claim his coat.

"Already making lists, Hubert?" he said, voice as smooth as ever. "You've been here five minutes. Thought you were allergic to effort."

Hubert didn't look up from his notes. "I document what I observe. Unlike some, I don't improvise with fire and guesswork."

"Oh, please." Rodrick clapped me on the back. "Alexander, remember this moment. It's the first time your father's ever tried to claim credit for an estate he didn't even know existed until last week."

Juliet—the original one—cleared her throat. All her clones stopped moving at once and stared directly at the two men.

"Not now," she said, in a voice that could have frozen boiling water. "We are here to support our son. You two will behave."

The silence that followed was only broken by Jester whispering, "Ten points to Mom. Clean kill."

I just stood there in the middle of it all. My family. Loud, chaotic, incredibly gifted, and wholly unequipped for subtlety. And yet—despite all the contradictions, the swirling drama and impossible expectations—

It felt a little like home.

This cracked, cursed old place wasn't perfect.

But with them in it?

It might just become something.

The transformation began with a bang—literally.

Jester had flung one of her glowing neon balls into the crumbling parlor ceiling, which exploded not with force but with radiant light. The moment it burst, jagged lines of color snapped across the room like playful lightning, and the beams solidified in neon ribbons, holding the cracked wooden slats together with irreverent flair. "Artistic support structures," she declared, winking at me as she juggled another orb behind her back. "Because boring houses are depressing houses."

Morgan didn't laugh. He was too busy carving through a support column with a conjured sword of pure steel-blue light. "This one's infested," he muttered. "It's coming down." He snapped his fingers. Dozens of smaller swords—thin and angular—launched from his back in a perfect arc, slicing through rot, nails, and timeworn beams before nestling into the walls to act as anchors for a new support skeleton. "There," he said. "Military-grade internal structure. Survive anything short of a direct siege."

D.D. watched from the stairwell, his hands cupped around a shimmering hive of golden honeycombs. With a whisper to Eliza, his Morpheus Bee, he directed her into the walls. The faint hum of bees followed her, and soon honey seeped through cracks and mold, binding wood and stone, sealing rot and moisture. "Organic insulation," D.D. said with a shrug. "And it'll smell like meadows for the next ten years."

Gabby, ever the aesthete, strolled through the dusty ballroom like a perfumer inspecting an empty bottle. "No no no," he said, sniffing the air. "This simply won't do." A sharp flick of his wrist released a cloud of pheromones that shimmered like fog in golden sunset light. As it spread, the scent of old dust and decay faded, replaced with something warm—like amber and spice and laughter. He gave me a conspiratorial smile. "Atmosphere, darling. It's everything."

Marybelle floated through next. Quite literally. Her glass manipulation let her hover slightly above the floor, her bare feet never touching dust. She extended both hands and sent thin, clear panels of floating glass across the house, sliding them into place like puzzle pieces—replacing broken windows, shattered doors, and even reforming cracked mirrors. They didn't reflect perfectly, but rather with a soft, almost dreamlike glow. "Imperfect beauty," she said. "Let the cracks remain. They tell stories."

Then Katarina moved. I didn't see her do anything at first—but then the floorboards stopped creaking. The air settled. I blinked. Something was off—but in a way that felt safer, cleaner. Less haunted. I glanced her way and saw her holding a single memory shard—an item made from her Arte, Memory Manipulation. She'd pulled out the feeling of unease embedded in the mansion's core and sealed it in a silver flask. "There were some… lingering impressions," she said simply. "Not anymore."

Red had taken to the roof—or more precisely, become it. Her body, reduced to a glowing cloud of neon mist, drifted across the tiles and gutters, purging grime and cobwebs like some holy wind. She reformed beside me, dusting off her blazer. "Tried to fix the shingles," she said. "Turns out birds had been nesting in them for decades. They're very dead now."

And then there was Juliet.

The original her stood in the middle of the front hall, arms crossed, while at least six of her clones ran full renovations. One was repainting with a brush that changed color depending on the lighting. Another was sketching new wallpaper with calligraphic flourishes that responded to nearby emotion. A third Juliet planted herself in the kitchen and began summoning full cupboards' worth of utensils and cookware. "If you're going to run a mansion," she said, "you will need a kitchen that respects your station."

Rodrick wandered past all this chaos with his coat slung over one shoulder. He raised his eyebrows. "It's like watching a circus of gods." Then, with a twirl of his cane, he flicked a skillcube into the air—an old one, cracked and glowing red—and used it to rapidly grow an entire hedge wall around the property. "Privacy is priceless," he explained. "Especially if your neighbors turn out to be flesh-eating."

Hubert was on his fourth notebook. He hadn't used his Arte yet—at least, not openly. But he kept pointing out improvements others hadn't considered. "That chimney's cracked, but not structurally unsound. A minor reinforcement spell will save hours." Or, "The library could use condensation barriers. You'll thank me come winter." I caught him muttering calculations under his breath, which only made sense when I noticed three long-forgotten safes swinging open on their own upstairs.

"I'm not touching those," Gabby whispered. "That's how you end up cursed. Or in love. Possibly both."

Hours passed, but it felt like minutes. Walls changed. Windows gleamed. Light poured in, even where it shouldn't have been able to. Fractal, in her human form, eventually wandered in, stared at the rejuvenated estate, and murmured, "Was I… dreaming again? Or did we just inherit a miracle?"

"I think," I said, standing in the middle of it all, "we're just Duarte-ing it."

Everyone groaned.

"Don't say that," Marybelle muttered.

"You're ruining the mood," Morgan snapped.

"I liked it," Jester sang, tossing neon into the chandelier.

Juliet just smiled. "My little boy has a sense of humor now."

And with the estate half-alive and buzzing with spirit, I realized something strange.

This wasn't just home now.

It was ours.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.