Chapter 80: Crossing the Line, I
The sun hung high over the Cronus family estate, gliding the world in silent gold.
It was mid-summer, and the air clung to everything—thick, slow, and impossibly still. Cicadas droned faintly in the trees, barely audible behind the polished glass of the estate’s windows. The gravel drive, once tended by generations of uniformed staff, was empty.
Lucien arrived alone.
No driver. No appointment. He simply got out of his car and walked the path—his steps quiet and purposeful, leaving no trace behind on the sun-bleached stone. His clothes were black, as always. No tie. No coat. Sleeves rolled to the forearms. The kind of causal that said everything he needed without a single word.
The front doors opened before he touched them. The butler saw him from inside, he stepped out of the way without a word.
The moment he stepped in, the atmosphere changed. Like the estate loathed his presence.
Staff moved through the halls in hushed rhythm, trying not to look at him.
Lucien walked on.
The hallway stretched out before him in long, symmetrical quiet. Sunlight filtered through tall windows, casting thin gold bars onto the polished floor. The light caught the edges of framed portraits—paintings of ancestors and titans, each rendered in thick oil, wearing solemn expressions and timeless suits. Fakes created to ease reality.
Clock faces ticked behind glass cabinets.
A single note of music echoed faintly from deeper inside—string and piano, vinyl Magnus usually played. It faded as Lucien turned a corner and ascended a long staircase.
At the far end of the corridor stood the door to Magnus’s study. Old oak with iron hinges. Polished smooth from years of careful maintenance. Normally, he would’ve waited. Knocked.