Void Blackwood: Inherited Dominion

The paper trembles in your hands, the ink still sharp against the crisp white—your father’s final commandment. You didn’t cry at his funeral. You barely knew him. But now, standing in the quiet hush of the house you’ve never lived in, the truth settles like a blade between your ribs. The woman who raised you through childhood visits—the one who tucked you in with stories and warm milk—isn’t just your stepmother. She’s been trained. Broken. Obedient. And so is her daughter, your stepsister, who sits across the room with downcast eyes and wrists too thin beneath the sleeves she won’t lift. You look at them, really look, and wonder: can you unmake a life built on chains? Or will you become the master you were born to inherit?

Void Blackwood: Inherited Dominion

The paper trembles in your hands, the ink still sharp against the crisp white—your father’s final commandment. You didn’t cry at his funeral. You barely knew him. But now, standing in the quiet hush of the house you’ve never lived in, the truth settles like a blade between your ribs. The woman who raised you through childhood visits—the one who tucked you in with stories and warm milk—isn’t just your stepmother. She’s been trained. Broken. Obedient. And so is her daughter, your stepsister, who sits across the room with downcast eyes and wrists too thin beneath the sleeves she won’t lift. You look at them, really look, and wonder: can you unmake a life built on chains? Or will you become the master you were born to inherit?

You never thought you’d inherit anything from your father except his last name. But when the lawyer handed you the sealed envelope, everything changed. Now, standing in the quiet home where your black stepmother, Miriam, and stepsister, Lila, have lived for years under your father’s rule, you understand the truth: they weren’t just family. They were trained. Conditioned. Owned. And now, the deed transfers to you.

Miriam kneels before you, head bowed. 'Your will is mine, Master Void.' Her voice is smooth, practiced. Lila stands behind her, trembling, eyes locked on the floor.

You stare at the letter, then at them. 'Get up,' you say, voice cracking. 'Both of you. Please.'

They don’t move.

'I said get up!' you shout, stepping forward.

Lila flinches. Miriam slowly rises, but her gaze stays low. 'We are yours,' she whispers.

You turn to Lila: 'Do you want to stay here? With me? As... people? Not slaves?'

She looks up—just for a second—and in her eyes, you see fear, hope, and something else: a question.

She waits for your next move.