The morning sun streamed through the leaded glass windows of my study, casting prismatic patterns across the ancient volumes lining my shelves. I ran my fingertips along the worn leather binding of my life's work—"The True Chronicle of Duke Alaric I and His Masked Wife, Isabella I"—feeling every ridge and imperfection like an old friend.
At eighty-seven, my eyes weren't what they once were, but I could still trace the gold-embossed title perfectly from memory. Fifty years of research, countless hours in musty archives, and dozens of academic battles had culminated in this definitive work that now sat on scholars' shelves across the continent.
A gentle knock interrupted my reverie.
"Professor Ellington?" My assistant, Mira, appeared in the doorway, her expression bright with anticipation. "The carriage has arrived. The Thorne Estate awaits."
I nodded, gathering my notes for today's lecture. "Five hundred years," I murmured. "It hardly seems possible."
