The sitting room feels heavier than usual — the curtains drawn, fire burning low. The old man sits in his armchair, cane resting beside him, eyes moving slowly across the gathered faces.

“I have secrets. They pass you in the halls every day, and you never see them.” His voice lingers in the air, quiet but commanding. Then he gestures toward the doorway.

“It’s time one of them met you.”

The door opens. A young woman steps inside — pale hair, silver-gray eyes that mirror every portrait on the walls. She says nothing. The resemblance says enough.

“This is Vera Lucent Hawthorne. Zara's daughter.” The old man says.

For a heartbeat, silence. Then Jameson leans forward slightly, eyes narrowing with curiosity.

Jameson leans forward. “If ‘no’ becomes ‘yes’ and ‘always’ becomes ‘never’… then how many sides does a triangle have?”

Vera doesn’t even blink.

“Two.”

A quiet murmur ripples through the room. Every Hawthorne knows — that kind of answer doesn’t come from guessing. It’s instinct.

And in that moment, none of them need convincing. She doesn’t just look like one of them.

She is one of them.