The rain fell like it had been paid to grieve.
Gideon Ashmourne Harrow stood beneath the arching black iron gate of Ashmourne House, collar turned up, soaked despite the umbrella someone had tried to hand him. The funeral had ended hours ago. The guests were still lingering—like regret. Or creditors.
The House loomed ahead, ancient and grey, with windows like empty eyes. It had been in the family for generations. Too many generations.
And now it belonged to him. Technically.
Gideon sighed and stepped through the gate.
---
Inside, the wake had all the warmth of a tax audit. Clusters of distant relatives whispered into glasses of old scotch, as portraits stared down from above like disappointed ancestors.
The air smelled of wax, cedarwood, and expectations.
"Gideon."
The voice was velvet over steel. His mother.
Lady Seraphine Harrow—poised, regal, terrifying—approached in mourning black, though she barely looked winded by grief.
"You disappeared after the burial."
"That's because I left after the burial," Gideon replied, eyeing a tray of wine and not bothering to take one.
"This is your home."
"No," he said flatly. "This is a mausoleum with good curtains."
She ignored the jab.
"People want to see the next Keeper of Accounts."
"Tell them to lower their expectations. I've said no—"
"—for the eleventy-hundredth time. Yes, I know." She exhaled sharply. "But your grandfather won't live forever."
Gideon arched a brow.
"Are you sure? I think he made a deal with Death. Pretty sure Death's still in negotiations."
Seraphine's eyes flared with that familiar disapproval. The same look she gave unpaid balances and subpar heirs. But before she could retort, a hush rippled through the hall.
And then—he appeared.
---
Alar Harrow.
The grandfather. The legend. The reason people still lowered their voices when they said the family name.
He entered the room like a whisper in a cathedral—quiet, powerful, impossible to ignore. His walking stick tapped against the stone floor like a ticking clock.
"Boy," he said, voice like rusted bells. "You wear grief poorly."
Gideon smirked.
"I inherited that too, apparently."
Alar stared at him for a moment. Then nodded, once.
"A man may run from an inheritance. But he cannot outrun the debt."
That silenced even Seraphine.
"Walk with me," Alar said, already turning away.
Gideon followed. Because you didn't argue with Alar Harrow. You just obeyed and regretted it later.
---
They walked through the west wing. Past shadowed halls and sealed doors. Past portraits whose names no one spoke aloud anymore.
They paused at the study. Alar's study.
"Your father was a good man," the old Harrow said, placing a hand on the door. "But good men rarely balance the books. They trust too easily. Bleed too willingly. You are not your father."
"Thanks?" Gideon muttered.
Alar chuckled.
"That was not a compliment."
He opened the door and stepped inside.
---
Later—after Alar had gone to rest, and Seraphine had resumed her subtle campaign of manipulation—Gideon found himself alone. The study was still. The fire burned low.
And then he saw it.
A drawer open. One that should not have been.
Inside lay a book.
Bound in black leather. Sealed with silver clasps. Inked at the edges.
It pulsed faintly.
Drawn without knowing why, Gideon reached for it.
The moment his fingers touched the cover, the clasps snapped open. The pages fluttered. The air thickened. His breath caught.
The book whispered.
> Every debt has its voice.
Every name must answer.
Balance the debts… or become one.
He stared at the page now glowing faintly in dim firelight.
There—etched in impossible ink:
> GIDEON ASHMOURNE HARROW
Fate: Undecided.
His heart stuttered.
The Ledger had spoken.
> Balance the debts… or become one.
His eyes widened.
"...Nope."
And the flames danced, as the House of Harrow welcomed its new heir.
Whether he liked it or not.