Chapter 90: The Bloodline Legacy

Back at the Norse mansion, the music had faded.

The laughter, the clinking glasses, the political smiles — all of it had dissolved into silence.

Only the mansion remained.

Lara was invited to stay the night, and she agreed. It wasn’t unusual, and it wasn’t the first time. She had slept here a few times before.

But tonight felt different.

Tonight, she noticed things.

The second-floor hallway stretched long and regal beneath a white ceiling dotted with pen lights that cast warm gold over the polished tiled floor.

Oil paintings lined the entire wall — portrait after portrait of the firstborn sons of the Norse bloodline in ornate frames carved with intricate crests and battle insignias.

Generals. Commanders. War strategists.

Men who carried power in their gaze even centuries after their deaths.

They stared down the hallway like silent sentinels guarding a legacy built on blood and victory.

Lara walked slowly. She didn’t just pass by them.

She studied them.

The oldest portrait stopped her.

She did not recognize that face, but the name.

Amiel Norse, 16th century — Asael’s eldest great-grandson.

The first and last time she had seen him was when he was a fragile newborn, laid across her withered hands, wrapped in swaddling cloth. His cry had been soft. His future, vast.

Now he hung here immortalized in oil and gold frame.

Honored and remembered.

But something was wrong. Her eyes scanned the wall again.

Where were the portraits of her father, Odin, of her brother, Asael?

Where was Ephraim— Asael’s firstborn?

Where was Atlas, the eldest grandson?

Men of direct lineage. Men who should have been here.

Weren’t their portraits once displayed in the Norse Ancestral Home?

What happened to them? What happened back then?

Why did history seem to erase their names like they had never existed?

“You seem interested in the Norse bloodline.”

Madeline’s gentle voice drifted down from the staircase.

Lara turned slightly. “I am… Mom.” Her voice softened naturally at the word. It always did.

“The Norse men were valiant generals. They protected this country for generations.”

Her gaze shifted down the hallway to the portrait of General Leonard Norse.

His image hung near the end, close to the corner room she occupied.

Commanding. Disciplined. Eyes sharp as steel.

“Your godfather commissioned Leo Nardo to recreate them,” Madeline said fondly. “The originals are preserved in the museum. These are copies.”

Lara nodded.

Copies of preserved history. Curated legacy. And yet… incomplete.

She wished Madeline good night and stepped into her room.

….

A delicate floral scent greeted her — sweet notes of lavender blended with soft herbs and evergreen. It was a comforting fragrance, carefully chosen.

It was her first time sleeping in that room, as it had been renovated previously and she slept in the guestroom.

This mansion had eight bedrooms on the second floor.

This one was the brightest.

A corner room.

Large windows on two sides. White sheer curtains that danced in the night breeze. Moonlight spilling across polished floors.

The best room in the house.

It had once been intended for the only daughter of Leonard Norse.

But the daughter had met an untimely end.

And the room had waited.

Lara’s eyes moved to the wall opposite the bed. Photographs lined it.

A baby girl, documented meticulously.

Newborn. One month. Two months. Three. A tiny hand gripping a small foot at four. A first smile. A small bow clipped to soft hair.

Every monthsary captured with obsessive love. Until one year old.

Then nothing. No second birthday. No toddler steps. No school photos.

The timeline stopped like someone had torn a page from a book.

Lara had once wanted to ask how the youngest Norse sibling had died.

But she had quickly learned it was forbidden. A taboo in the Norse mansion.

A wound that never healed. A name spoken only in whispers.

She stepped closer to the final portrait — the one-year-old girl smiling brightly at the camera.

The resemblance unsettled her.

The longer she stared, the stronger the pull became.

The curve of the eyes. The shape of the lips. The faint dimple.

Was it similarity… or something more?

She had always been told she was chosen as a goddaughter because she resembled the siblings.

That was why they called her Lara instead of Larissa.

Lara, a softer name, one that meant protection and cheerfulness, the name of the one they had lost.

As she stood under the gaze of a child frozen in time, something inside her stirred uneasily.

Why was Layla not sleeping in this room?

Why had this room — heavy with memory — been given to her?

As if summoned by her thoughts, Logan’s voice echoed faintly from memory.

“At that time, Mom was still in denial,” he had once explained. “She believed our sister wasn’t dead. She kept saying she’d come back someday.”

Layla had been given the room next door.

And when Madeline finally accepted reality… Layla had already grown attached to her own space.

So this room remained, waiting. And then Larissa Reyes came.

Lara looked again at the bright, smiling eyes in the photograph.

The picture was taken twenty-one years ago.

Yet the quality remained pristine — as if the moment refused to age. As if time itself respected this child.

Lara exhaled and turned toward the closet. When she opened it, she paused.

New clothes hung neatly inside. Fresh fabrics. Delicate cuts. Custom tailoring.

Madeline’s touch was unmistakable.

Madeline Norse was not only a mother — she was one of the most celebrated designers in Lanura. Every stitch carried intention.

Lara pulled out a silk sleepwear set and slowly changed into it.

Yes. She was lucky.

Lucky to have been taken in. Lucky to be treated with care.

Lucky to be given the brightest room.

Lucky to be called daughter — even if only a goddaughter.

Even if it came with invisible boundaries.

But it was her choice. She could have been adopted into the family and become the family’s daughter legally, not just ceremonially.

She lay down on the wide bed, staring at the ceiling.

Lucky. Was it really luck or a twist of fate?

There was one truth she could never ignore.

A long time ago, she was a Norse.

But now, she was not born a Norse, that’s what she thought.

And in a mansion built on bloodline and legacy —

That difference mattered.

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