A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 38: Riddle Territory

The night was still as they stepped out of the carriage, the air thick with the weight of freshly fallen snow. The Riddle Estate loomed before them, dark and sprawling, its grand columns casting long shadows against the frost-covered ground. The estate had always felt removed from time itself—isolated, untouched by the world beyond its iron gates.

Anastasia had been here before. The halls were as familiar to her as the corridors of Grimmauld Place, yet they did not feel like home. Nothing did.

Tom still held her hand.

His grip was firm but not forceful, his fingers curling around hers in a way that felt deliberate. Possessive.

She let him.

Because it was easier that way.

The heavy wooden doors opened before them with a soft creak, the warm glow of candlelight spilling into the snow-dusted entryway. The air inside carried the scent of aged parchment and firewood, of something rich and old, like a history steeped in power.

Tom released her hand only when they crossed the threshold, his long strides carrying him further into the grand hall. He did not turn to see if she followed.

Because he already knew she would.

The doors closed behind them with a soft thud, sealing them inside.

For a long moment, there was only silence.

Then, Tom finally spoke.

"You think this is all pointless, don't you?"

His voice was smooth, quiet—but it echoed in the cavernous space, lingering between them like an unanswered question.

Anastasia did not react at first. She merely unfastened the clasp of her cloak, slipping it from her shoulders with careful precision, as if the weight of his words meant nothing to her.

Then, with equal indifference, she asked, "Do I?"

Tom turned to face her now, his sharp features half-shadowed by the dim glow of the candelabras. He studied her the way a predator might study prey—not with hunger, but with curiosity. With patience.

"You see our work as indiscriminate violence," he continued, stepping closer, his hands resting lightly behind his back. "You think we burn simply to watch the flames."

She met his gaze, her own expression unreadable. "Don't you?"

A slow smirk curled at the edges of his lips.

"You mistake destruction for chaos," he said, voice barely above a whisper, but somehow heavier than anything spoken before. "There is nothing indiscriminate about it, Anastasia. Everything I do has purpose."

She held his gaze, unwavering. "And what is that purpose, Tom?"

His smile deepened, as if pleased by the challenge in her tone. He reached forward then, his fingers trailing over the fabric of her sleeve before slipping just beneath her chin, tilting her face ever so slightly toward him.

"Tell me, Anastasia," he murmured, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers barely skimming her skin. "What do you truly want?"

The question settled between them, sinking into the quiet like a stone thrown into still water.

For a moment, she did not answer.

Because she didn't know how to.

She had spent her entire life playing roles, shaping herself into what was necessary, what was expected. What did she want?