I gently traced the top of the heavy wooden chest with my fingertips. I don’t know what I expected to feel. Dust, dirt, and grime, perhaps. The soft sheen of gilded wood, unyielding despite the years.

A glimmer of magic.

I was disappointed to not experience the latter, yes, that selfish, prideful part of me wanting it to react to my own magic. To know for certain that I was chosen to protect my family’s legacy.

But I found it, didn’t I? And the lack of magic, of anything indicating what was in the weighty old chest, made my anticipation all the greater. I, who had always prided myself on my self control, was betrayed by a racing heart and nervous stomach as I considered it.

So what treasure did it contain? I already possessed my House’s ancestral sword. Neither history, nor memory, recounted another worthy named weapon of our House. Nor had we needed one; it had been a quiet springtime of peace for hundreds of years.

But the storms of winter and war were approaching.

The chest was hidden by my ancestor to protect our family in a time of great need, then promptly lost for centuries. If it were important, how could it have been forgotten for so long?

I sat down on the creaking wooden floor and considered the circumstances. Of course it was here, and not elsewhere. There had always been something in the old house that called to me. Ghosts or restless spirits, the servants whispered when they thought I could not hear. Loyalty to my family would say others, the jealous nobility. The eastern wing was crumbling under the weight of memory and despair, and the vines snaking ever upward. The western wing--more like a townhouse--was comfortable, with fireplaces in nearly every room to keep out the cold. But I always slept fitfully and with difficulty, ever since I was a child, no matter in which house we were staying. I couldn’t escape nightmares or strange dreams or visions--whatever they were, or some combination thereof. I was always restless, searching through libraries and their books, chapels and temples, the woods, searching for the answer to a question I couldn’t form, I didn’t know how to ask, something I couldn’t name.

A desperate, relentless yearning for something. To be something more. To not feel like I was so broken, a failed heir with too much magic and power flowing through his veins. I knew what would happen if I lost control. So I spent my life constantly keeping myself occupied to ensure I didn’t. I didn’t have many friends, and I could not trust a romantic partner.

But maybe, just maybe, this old chest would have something within it that could help me.

Something that explained how my ancestors who also possessed this magic, these problems, dealt with it. Something that would help me protect my family when the war arrived.

Or maybe it would be nothing at all and I’d have wasted hours praying, researching, scouring every corner in every room for my hopes to be dashed and my questions to remain unanswered yet again.

I could feel sweat and grime in my hair and the weight of legacy on my shoulders. The world around me faded away--I couldn’t hear my family downstairs, and my dusty surroundings didn’t matter.

What mattered was what stood before me.

I swallowed, took a deep breath.

What mattered was how I reacted to whatever was in the box, not the actual contents.

And the choices I would make regarding them. The treasure--or whatever it was--was not the end of my journey, but rather an opportunity.

I tried to convince myself of this as I carefully opened the lid with shaking hands. I didn’t know where to begin.I was fully trembling as I carefully considered the chest’s contents.

My racing heart and mind began to calm as my earlier attempts to convince myself began to sink in and I focused on what lay before me.

A legacy. Not mine, but perhaps someday it would be part of mine.

I would be fine, no matter what happened in the future. I would survive, like my ancestors had. I was bound by my responsibilities to my House’s legacy, yes, but I could still make my own choices, forge my own path. My fate was not certain. I couldn’t remember the last time I cried. Hot tears of anger when I was a teenager, perhaps. But suddenly the world was swimming before my eyes and I was sniffling.

I spent hours sitting with the chest and its contents until my back and shoulders ached and I had cried myself into exhaustion. But I had a sense of peace about it all.

I had found my answer.