The rain came down in thick, steady sheets against the old leaded-glass windows of Lockridge Hollow. A slow, rhythmic sound, like the ticking of some ancient clock, filling the quiet morning. Beaumont Lockridge exhaled as he pushed himself upright in bed, scrubbing a hand down his face. The fire in his room had long since died down, leaving only the faint scent of woodsmoke in the air. His sheets were rumpled, evidence of another restless night, but that was nothing new. The mornings here always felt the same. The world outside his window was drenched in silver-gray, the land stretching out in misty waves, the pastures merging with the fog beyond. He could just barely make out the distant, dark forms of horses moving through the rain, their silhouettes blending into the landscape. His land. His legacy. The empire he had spent years ensuring would remain his. Yet something about it felt... cold. Not in the look of it—Lockridge Hollow was a warm, beautiful place—but in its soul, its essence. Something vital was missing, something he couldn’t quite name. His father had built this place on sweat and iron, carving out a dynasty with ruthless efficiency. Beaumont had taken up the mantle with even more hunger, securing it, expanding it, crushing those who stood in his way. He had everything. The wealth, the power, the respect. And yet, it wasn’t enough. Not truly. The land felt empty, hollow in ways he couldn’t admit aloud. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, feeling the cold hardwood beneath his feet. Somewhere down the hall, the house was waking up. The soft clatter of dishes from the kitchen, the distant hum of his mother’s voice carrying through the halls. The Lockridge estate was never truly silent. He sighed, rolling his shoulders, about to rise— Then, the sound came. The sharp, unmistakable chime of the butler’s doorbell. Beaumont froze. The weight in his chest shifted, sharpened. That bell meant someone was at the servants’ entrance, waiting for attention. It rarely rang this early.