That morning, Gevan stood in front of the large gate of the Daxon residence. The building he had always called home now looked unfamiliar. The gate’s paint was still the same, but the atmosphere was different. There were no guards who recognized him, no servants who greeted him.

He pressed the doorbell.

There was no response.

Gevan frowned, then pressed the bell again, longer this time. An unfamiliar man finally appeared from a small door beside the gate.

“Who are you looking for?” the man asked curtly.

“I’m Gevan Daxon,” Gevan replied. “This is my family’s house.”

The man looked him up and down. “Sorry, sir. This house has been...