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The room beyond was not the dark, damp cellar she expected. Instead, it was a sun-drenched studio with floor-to-ceiling glass walls overlooking the turquoise sea. Canvases were stacked against the walls, but they weren't paintings. They were intricate maps, woven from silver thread and silk, depicting constellations that didn’t appear in any modern atlas.
The morning sun filtered through the sheer linen curtains of the Mediterranean villa, casting long, soft shadows across the terracotta floor. Lucea stood by the open window, the salty breeze from the Adriatic ruffled the edges of her silk robe. In her hand, she held a weathered brass key—the only thing her grandfather had left her besides this secluded estate on the Altea coast.
Taking a breath, Lucea inserted the key. It turned with a satisfying, heavy thud.
