Chapter 1 — The Dark Heritage (Lara)

The sound of rain hitting my bedroom window was the only real company I had. Outside, the world was wrapped in mist and shadows, exactly how I liked it. In here, among melted candles and posters of dark bands, I could finally breathe.

“Lara!” My adoptive mother’s voice echoed up the stairs, cutting through my moment of peace. “Come down now, your father and I need to talk to you.”

I sighed, dragging myself out of bed. My bare feet stepped on books scattered across the floor as I headed to the door. At twenty years old, in my own house, they still treated me like a rebellious teenager.

I went down the stairs and found them sitting in the immaculate living room, where nothing was out of place. My mother, Margaret, had her hands firmly resting on her lap, while my father, Richard, read something on his tablet as if I weren’t even there.

“Yes?” I asked, crossing my arms.

Margaret didn’t waste time.

“We received an email from your college today. About that internship position in the literature department.” She paused meaningfully. “They mentioned that your… visual presentation may not be suitable for a corporate environment.”

“It’s just makeup and clothes, Mom,” I replied, keeping my voice firm. “And my academic performance speaks for itself.”

Richard slowly raised his gaze.

“It’s not just about grades, Lara. In the job market, appearances matter. You need to learn to dress like a normal person if you want any chance in this economy.”

“Normal?” I laughed bitterly. “How can I be normal when this family has never treated me as part of it?”

Margaret clenched her jaw.

“Don’t start with that again. We gave you everything you needed — education, opportunities, a roof over your head…”

“Everything except acceptance,” I shot back, feeling the old wound reopen.

“Enough!” Richard slammed his palm on the table. “You have until the end of the month to have a more professional appearance. Or we’re cutting your allowance. Understood?”

I turned around without answering and went back upstairs, their murmurs of disapproval following me. I locked my bedroom door, leaning against it while taking a deep breath. They would never understand that some people weren’t born to fit in.

It was then that my paternal grandmother by affection, Agnes, came to mind. She was the only one who never judged me, with her wise eyes and her stories about herbs and spells. Before she died, she whispered to me:

“There’s a gift for you in the attic, dear. For when you’re ready.”

Driven by a force I didn’t understand, I dragged the ladder to the attic and climbed up. The air was dusty and heavy, smelling of forgotten time. There, in an old cedar chest, I found a diary with a worn leather cover engraved with strange symbols. “Ancestral Witchcraft” was written on the first page, in Agnes’s elegant handwriting.

As I flipped through the pages, full of spells and rituals, a memory invaded my mind — the first time I saw Professor Dorian in the college parking lot, with his wife.

He was hugging her affectionately, with a wide, genuine smile. The way he looked at her… as if she were his entire existence.

My heart ached. I had never seen love like that, so pure and devoted. He was everything I wanted — attention, dedication, passion. And I was determined to have him.

I picked up the diary, holding it against my chest.

“Thank you, Grandma Agnes,” I whispered to the shadows. “I finally found what I need.”

I climbed down from the attic with a new purpose. While my parents continued their discussion about jobs and appearances in the living room, I smiled for the first time that night. They wanted me to fit in? To be normal?

Well, I wouldn’t be. I didn’t want normality. I wanted power. And with Agnes’s diary, I would finally have it.